


Son of heaven set me free and let me go

by philippcarlyle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Asexual Character, Aziraphale still has his bookshop but you know he actually has to sell stuff, Crowley is a mess, F/M, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, no heaven and hell don't let the title mislead you, the slowest of them all, their families are a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 14:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 36,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19253050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philippcarlyle/pseuds/philippcarlyle
Summary: A new neighbour moves in next door to Crowley. Inevitably, they meet.Aka the next-door neighbours AU with human Crowley, human Aziraphale.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovely reader! I'm glad I could tempt you to click on this fic. I hope, it doesn't disappoint.  
> I am not a native speaker and I currently am not in the possession of a beta-reader. If you're interested, please come talk to me on tumblr! (@philippcarlyle)
> 
> the title is from Queen's (ofc) My Fair King 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, this is my first work for Good Omens and I haven't read the book yet, but I adore the show.  
> Kudos and especially comments are appreciated!

_Whomp._

Crowley’s eyes twitch behind closed eyelids, he stirred, but it was not yet enough to wake him up.

_Whomp._

He turns around, wrapping himself even tighter in his fluffy blanket. No light finds its way into the cocoon, no sound disturbs him.

_Whomp._

Except for this one, apparently. Brows knit together, hands curl tighter around the blanket.

…

A satisfied sigh leaves Crowley’s lips, his fingers relax and the dream tries to come back to him, take him to a lovely, unknown place with ducks and ice cream and -  _WHOMP._

He jumps out of bed, half tangled in the furry blanket, and storms out of his bedroom. Whoever dared to disturb his very much needed sleep better holds on to their poor soul for Crowley was ready to crush them into pieces.

He grabs his keys and pushes the nearest pair of many sunglasses onto his nose. Bare-footed, he rushes out of his flat and raises his hand to knock violently against the door of his next-door neighbour. He stops, fist raised and stares. The vicious knocking to make his mood obvious cannot work out, it seems. The door is already open. Damn.

With slower steps he proceeds into the mainly empty hall, a few boxes are pushed to the walls. After a few steps the corridor opens into a big room, he presumes it is the living room and there he is, the evildoer. A man inspects one of his windows, grabs onto it and bangs it into the frame. _Whomp._

“Aha!”

The man turns, his hair looking like a cloud in front of the windows view of a perfectly baby blue sky. He gasps and his hands fly upwards. Slowly, the window behind him creaks open again. Sigh.

“Oh hello there! Didn’t hear you come in, Sir,” the cloudy-haired man says. He does not just look cloudy-haired, Crowley notices. He wears light clothes in every sense - they look extremely soft, light-weighted and no shade is darker than sepia. What a strange man. Adding to that his posh paleness. Why posh? He doesn't look particularly posh, except for the fact that he's wearing a summer suit while furnishing his flat. Posh.

“I see that,” Crowley snarls, then points at the window. “You’re doing it wrong, let me-”

He walks around the man, making him step aside and lifts the window to a certain angle, then closes it permanently. Another sigh.

“Why, thank you very much! I tried to close this stubborn thing forever, I-”

“Yeah, I heard that.”

“Oh, I’- oh no, did I wake you up? I am so sorry, can I offer you a cup of tea…?”

The man looks Crowley up and down and Crowley realises how he must look. A stranger, storms in angry and impolite, dressed in his silk pyjamas, a hyper fluffy blanket and his glasses. He rolls his eyes, shakes his head and trudges back out of the living room.

“The name’s Crowley and no. Also, don’t thank me,” he says, then adds: “The other windows close the same way, I guess, the building’s a bit crooked and the windows are all fucked up.”

“Good to know, thank- yes. I am pleased to meet you, I’m-”

“Yeah, yeah, good night.” Crowley does not catch the rest of the men’s ramble. At least he thinks it’s a ramble, unnecessary and not worth listening to. He is already at his door, when the man catches up and calls his name.

He stops and looks over his shoulder, key already in the door lock.

The other man just looks at him and Crowley feels his mouth twitch. The cloudy-man seems to try really hard to think of something that is no thank-you or anything else that Crowley seemed to discourage. How very sweet of him.

“...do you know why the fire escape stairs do not pass by my flat?” The man sounds a little bit defeated by now.

“No,” Crowley smirks, “I know I can access it from my kitchen.” Not sure why he shared this piece of information he hastily opens the door, walks in and pushes it closed with more force than necessary. He drops the keys but keeps his glasses right on. Now that he is fully awake there is no way he’ll find sleep again soon. Might as well find some food and start the day. After all, it is already 10 am.

No further crashing windows disrupt his day. When he leaves the flat, he does not look at the now closed door of his new next-door neighbour. He does not even think about him. Or his stupidly bright eyes, the cheery thank-you’s or everything else that was utterly despicable. He does not.


	2. A name and three poor plants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale coincidentally meets Crowley again. They talk for a bit.
> 
> (As coincidental as an encounter of two people living in the same house on the same floor can be.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> This time, the lovely, perfect and amazing @picnokinesis beta'd for me!
> 
> Hope you like this one!

It has been two days since Crowley’s encounter with the new neighbour. Not that he’s in any way paying attention to him. Why would he.

Crowley does not meet a lot of the people who live in the building, as there are only a handful of flats and they are either inhabited by old people who do not leave their places a lot or early risers who fortunately never come and go when Crowley does.

He pushes the door open with his elbow and is already up a flight of stairs when it closes loudly on its own. The two large bags weigh heavy and he drops one of them to open the next door, so close to his flat. If only he could get the key out of his pocket. Additionally, his hair falls into his face. He tucks it behind his ear, huffing at the sacrifices for style.

The door thuds shut again, softer this time. Crowley didn’t even hear it open. He tries again to get the bundle of keys out of his skinny jeans which come with equally slinky pockets. He does not need to interact with humans today, he already did that on his shopping trip.

“Good afternoon, dear Crowley!” Oh no. Crowley’s shoulders want to slump down, but he has to stay uptight to not let this bag fall down. Instead, he rolls his eyes behind the sunglasses. He greets Mr Cloudy with a grin that shows too many teeth.

“Oh yes, such a good afternoon.” He turns away again, nearly ripping his pocket apart now, because the keys are now caught in the fabric and stuck. “For fuck’s sake…”

“Can I help you? You have an awful lot to carry there, here, let me take this,” Cloudy says and before Crowley can protest, his bag is taken from him.

He finally frees the keys and unlocks his door. He picks up the second bag and after a long stare that makes the other man’s smile falter a bit, he jerks his head for him to come inside.

The keys are dropped in a bowl by the door and Crowley carefully places his bag on the table in his living room. The flat’s layouts are similar, he too faces the askew windows now, although his are all firmly shut with curtains drawn half-shut.

“Okay, gimme-”, Crowley stops when he sees the fair haired man cling to the bag. 

“I am sorry to hold your bag captive, but I really want to properly introduce myself first. It’s what you’re supposed to do to your neighbours, and I fear I will not get another chance.”

Crowley’s brain is not fast enough to stop his face from breaking into an amused half-smile. He shrugs and gestures for him to go ahead. 

“Thank you, dear. I am- I am Raphael Fell, nice to meet you properly, Crowley.” He hands over the full bag.

Crowley takes it and considers the introduction. Raphael Fell - the man does not look like a Raphael, if you asked him. He sets the bag down next to the first one and shrugs. 

“Okay. I kinda expected something different, but I guess a name is a name.”

“What did you expect?” Raphael asks with his stupid bright eyes, an eager smile and Crowley is not entire sure, but did he just blush?

“I don’t know, something lengthy, aloof. But whatever, Raphael does the job.”

Raphael - Mr Fell - whatever, seems to consider this and now Crowley is sure he did not imagine the blush. 

“Well, you caught me. I go by Raphael, but that’s just a, well, an abbreviation?”

What kind of name could this man possible have that Raphael would be considered shorter? Crowley raises an eyebrow and leans against the table. 

“Oh, you want to know?” The man seems flustered by now. “Okay, but there’s a reason I do not use it. People make fun of it and I know I should be proud of it, but you know, opinions still affect a human from time to time, so-”

“Come on, what’s your name?” Crowley interrupts. 

“Uh. Aziraphale Fell.” He casts his eyes down, then looks up at Crowley again.

“Huh. That’s a name, I agree. A bit pompous, but it has a nice ring to it.”

“You think so?” Ra- Aziraphale asks, obviously surprised by his reaction. Crowley shrugs and gives a short nod. 

“I do. Now, I gotta tend to my plants, errr- errants.”

“Aww, you bought plants? I’m not too good with them, I fear, totally ruined an apple tree once.” Aziraphale gives the bags a pitying glance, probably remembering the unfortunate tree. Crowley stops himself from rolling his eyes and stands up, walks back to the front door and opens it. Can he be any clearer?

“Thank you, it was lovely to chat with you, Crowley.” Aziraphale follows him and goes over to his own flat. He waits a moment and Crowley realises he should respond. Despite himself, he says:

“Lovely, totally. Thanks for helping, I appreciate it. Have a nice day.” He quickly closes the door, but can’t deny he didn’t see the sweet little smile on the other man’s face when he thanked him.

And ‘have a nice day?’. Come on, we’re better than this. Crowley shakes his head at himself, since when was he trying to be nice to his neighbours? Well, he still isn’t particularly nice when he meets the other people in the house. 

As he unpacks the three plants from the bags, he recapitulates the conversation. Now he knows what the cloudy man is called, so what. He stops dead, the small new Peperomia in his hands. Did Aziraphale call him ‘dear’?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have got any ideas for further chapters, prompt ideas or anything you'd like to happen, let me know! <3


	3. Daily Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's POV. Just an ordinary day, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome baaaack  
> This chapter is again beta'd by my lovely @picnokinesis!
> 
> Have fun reading :)

Aziraphale’s alarm gently wakes him with Bach’s orchestral Suite No. 3 and makes him aware of the sunshine coming in from his bedroom’s window. A book slips from his fingers, he must have fallen asleep reading it last night. Smiling at the title, Aziraphale puts it back into the small shelf next to his bed. “The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch” was a very entertaining book and although Aziraphale didn’t believe in that kind of magic, it was a nice read.

He plans on picking it up again tonight to read a few more of those ‘prophesies’. For now he has to get ready and over to his book shop. After a savoury breakfast he fills his favourite thermos cup with tea. It is only a ten minute walk to his shop, by then the cup is empty and he goes to make a new one in the small kitchenette in the back of his shop.

The day passes by uneventfully, as Aziraphale likes it. He has time to read, talk to a few customers, drink tea and have a long lunch break. As the afternoon hours turn into early evening hours he turns up the soft classical music and starts to dust his beloved books. 

He leaves the rather small child’s book section and continues with the how-to’s, guides and manuals. There are a few books about plants, but he only has them to attract people who otherwise wouldn’t buy any books. He considers a particularly large one about gardening and thinks back to his new flat and the strange neighbour he’s only seen twice so far.

Crowley. In Aziraphale’s opinion he was impolite, rough, dressed in a very peculiar manner and a bit dubious. In Aziraphale’s unheeded opinion he was mysterious, incredibly attractive, fascinating and secretly a kind person. After all, he helped him with the window. And let Aziraphale introduce himself. And he didn’t laugh at his name.

Obviously, not caring for his name was not something that made Crowley immediately a good, or a potential friend at all in Aziraphale’s eyes. Also, Crowley did not appear to be interested in friendships, least at all in a friendship with someone as different from him as Aziraphale. He shook his head at himself, quickly dusted the whole section and carried on with the novels.

No need to think about people who were clearly not interested in him. In any way, ever. Aziraphale did not move house to make friends, he moved because he wanted to be closer to his book shop. He remembers that the landlord had warned him about “an unpleasant, but rarely encountered neighbour” and he had smiled and said, “Oh, that won’t be a problem. I won’t be in a lot either and I think I can handle new neighbours”. He knew how to handle people, he worked in retail, for God’s sake. 

When he locks the doors to the shop for the day and walks down the street, he tries to decide where to eat tonight. He likes to cook, but every other day he likes to eat out.

He walks past the building’s entrance he now lives in and scans the street for a decent dining place. He walks only a few metres, when he smells something interesting. A small italian restaurant on the other side catches his eye. Just as he considers to have a look at their menu, he spots another interesting thing. Or an interesting someone. His neighbour Crowley lounges at one of the tables in the worst manner he has ever seen someone sit on a chair. If it can be called sitting. Aziraphale’s back and legs already hurt from looking. 

Crowley hasn’t noticed him, he swings a glass of red wine and gazes inside. He wears those sunglasses again, which fully cover his eyes. Aziraphale figures, this is ‘a look’. Does he want to go over? He replays their conversations. Better not.

The prospect of dining out lost its appeal by now. He wanders back, mind firmly set on cooking something lovely tonight and not on the tall, lean figure with the burning, shoulder-length hair. There was no use to it anyways. He produces a delicious meal that is not italian at all, goes to bed early to read more from Agnes Nutter and avoids all prophecies that revolve around mysterious, dangerous looking, beautiful men. Because why would he be interested in that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it til the end!  
> Comments and kudos mean the world to me <3


	4. The Parcel of Damnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley accepts a delivery for Mr Fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo!  
> This one's beta'd by @picnokinesis <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

It rings. The doorbell. It rings a second, a third, a fourth time. 

Crowley sighs and peels himself off the broad leather couch. It has to be their postwoman, it’s that time of the day. But Crowley hasn’t ordered anything, at least he can’t remember. The only things he gets via delivery are pizza and thai food. And the occasional drunk order of equipment for his plants. 

As he hasn’t ordered anything (or at least cannot remember), he does not feel obliged at all to open the door. He will not take a package for someone else. He will not.

What if his new neighbour, Mr Aziraphale ordered something? He wasn’t home a lot, not that Crowley paid close attention to the man. If he had ordered something, Crowley could accept it for him. That was of course just his curiosity, he knew he was nosy, this doesn’t have to do anything with Aziraphale at all. That bloody name was way too sesquipedalian. Another stupid word. He’d have to come up with a nickname or something.

No. He did not have to do that. Why the hell would he?!

The ringing stops and Crowley sprints to the door. He flies down the flight of stairs, rips open the door and nearly scares the woman to drop the package.

She gasps in surprise, tossing over the small, but surprisingly heavy parcel. “Oh my, Mr Crowley, you surprised me!” she scolds. Her now free hands come to frantically pull at her jacket, which hardly hides the printed dress underneath. Hideous.

“Always up for a surprise, aren’t I? You look pretty as always, Madame Tracy,” Crowley answers. Regarding his usual mean demeanor - he just can’t do that with Madame Tracy, who does not want to be called Mrs or Ms, who is adorable quirky and yet vigorous enough to make even Crowley aware that it’s better to appease her.

“Thank you, the dress is new!” What a malinvestment. Crowley offers her a pained smile.

“So, what is this?” He looks at the package he caught from her, searching for the addressee. Ahh. Found it, Mr Fell.

“I haven’t seen this name yet for your house, he must be new?”

“Oh yeah, new neighbour, I’ll give it to him,” Crowley mutters, trying to figure out what could be in the package already. He looks up at Madame Tracy once more.

“Anything else?”

“Nope, that’s all, sweetie. Gotta deliver many more though! I’ll see you next time, have a great day,” she replies. She walks back to her post van and Crowley returns to his flat. How bad would it be to open this package? 

He places it on the table in his kitchen and sits down in front of it. 

It sits there for the next few hours, while Crowley busies himself. Every time he passes it, he glances at it, then hastily does something to keep himself from breaking the privacy of correspondence. He scolds himself; he has literally no reason to be so interested in this dumb packet. In his defense, he isn’t really interested in it to begin with. He’s only curious as to what it might tell about its owner. 

Whom he also shouldn’t be as interested in, what was wrong with him? 

Crowley sighs, takes off his sunglasses and rubs his eyes. Maybe he should spend more time with other people, then he wouldn’t be craving knowledge about, attention from, whatever the fuck of this Aziraphale. But what were the alternatives? 

He slumps down on his bed, pulls out his phone. Contacts. Beelzebub. Blegh. Dagon? Eww. Hastur. Hastur wasn’t too bad, he tried to convince himself. He remembers one time when he tried to have lunch with him. No, he didn’t need to repeat that disaster. He drops his phone and buries his head under his arms. This was a useless endeavour.

After a quick accidental nap he tends to his plants. The three new one’s perfectly fit into Crowley’s garden-like room. Who needed a work space if you could transform it into a small paradise anyways? He wipes a few specks of dust from his new Peperomia. Mists all of them. Clips off a few ripped leaves. 

His stomach tells him he could go for some food soon. Did he miss lunch? He isn’t sure, his day was quite busy. And he can’t really go into the kitchen, can he? Not without getting tempted by the package.

The sound of the frontdoor opening, followed by steps on the staircase, makes him stop, sprayer still in hand, his stomach rumbling.

He sneaks up to his door’s peephole. There he comes, white hair fluffy and soft, with a beige coat and a tartan scarf loosely around his neck. 

Crowley eyes the bit of his kitchen table he can see from his spot. He looks back outside. Aziraphale unlocks his door. The door closes again, Crowley releases a breath.

Can you stop acting like a stalker? He cannot believe himself.  _ Get a grip. _

It would be weird to bring over the package immediately, that would imply he knew that Aziraphale was home. And he does not want his neighbour to know that. Know that he knows because he spied outside. How pathetic.

With an exasperated gesture at himself, Crowley opts for the bathroom first. 

After some much needed body care, Crowley finally dares to really look into the mirror. Well, he did that to shave too, but now he really looks at himself. Dark eyes stare back at him. He sighs, picks up his sunglasses from his breast pocket and puts them on. The light is bearable at this time of the day, but he’s so used to the glasses, he can’t imagine facing someone without them.

The silk shirt was cool enough, added a nice flowy-ness to his tight pants. Now, his hair. Crowley knows he’s vain. He doesn’t remember a time when he didn’t do everything possible to look his best. It’s his way of self care, he argues.

The soft waves of ginger hair fall all the way to his shoulders. He considers growing it out longer again, he loved it at mid-back. But caring for his hair was such a pain and he didn’t believe in hair dryers. Might as well keep it like this for now.

He picks up a small black scrunchie, ties the upper half of his hair into a lazy bun and threads his fingers through the hair that’s left down. Nice. He smirks at himself in the mirror, cocks his head to the side. Yeah, he can go over to Aziraphale like that. Or to anyone else. Doesn’t have to be this silly neighbour. Could be anyone.

Package already under one arm, he slips on his dress boots, the most casual pair he owns.

He goes over to Aziraphale, rings and takes a step back. The package rests against his hip, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He has no need, and more important, no right to be excited or nervous. This is just a neighbour who needs his delivery back. It doesn’t matter that this neighbour is obviously sophisticated, very kind and on top of it all downright adorable. 

Crowley blushes deep red when the door opens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pssst, I'd love to hear how you like it so far ;)


	5. Books and Food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Hope you liked the little cliffhanger last chapter lmao.  
> Once again beta'd by my every loyal @picnokinesis <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one!

Aziraphale opens the door and greets him with a: “Hello? Oh, Crowley!”

Crowley nods, wills the blush to disappear (it does not comply at first) and hands over the package. As soon as Aziraphale takes it, he burrows his hands deep in his pant pockets to obtain a nonchalant pose. He’s sure he looks like a gnarled willow.

“Hi, I accepted this for you. Wasn’t sure whether you’d be home by now, but…” He trails off. 

Aziraphale smiles brightly at him and Crowley’s glad he’s wearing his sunglasses. How could anyone face such a radiating smile without any protection?

“Excellent! I had hoped it’ll arrive today.”

“Well, it did,” Crowley replies and ends with a grin, as to not come off as disinterested. Why does he care? Agh.

They look at each other. Crowley feels like he should leave. He doesn’t. Aziraphale looks him up and down, then smiles. Uncertain, Crowley cocks an eyebrow. He taps one foot to release his nervous energy.

“Uhm...would you fancy a cup of tea? Or hot cocoa?” Crowley stares.

“I’d love that,” he hears himself say. Aziraphale’s happy hum is enough justification for his answer and before he knows it, he’d followed the man inside and sits at a table in a kitchen not unlike his own.

It has the same layout as his, but appears a lot smaller. Crowley blames all the stuffed cupboards, light shaded shelves and the absolutely hideous tartan tablecloth.

He leans back in the chair, one arm over the backrest, feet sprawled out under the table. Of course, he left his shoes at the door.

“So, what is it for you, tea or cocoa?” Aziraphale wants to know, already roaming one of his cupboards. Crowley watches, sees the baby blue shirt stretch with Aziraphale’s moves, admires the very swift movements. Not that he doesn’t like his own way of moving, but he can’t ignore how soft and elegant Aziraphale is every way in which he is edgy.

In response to the question, Crowley’s stomach speaks up again. Aziraphale snorts, then throws a hand over his mouth, as if he offended his guest. 

Crowley grins sheepishly. “Tea, but then I should probably go to my place again, haven’t eaten yet.” 

“Well, it’s only 5pm, my dear. Or haven’t you eaten anything at all today?” Aziraphale asks, eyes wide. He closes the cupboard and opens another one instead, produces a variety of menus and places them in front of Crowley.

“We might as well get some food together,” he says. 

“Errr…” Crowley looks at the menus. He carefully taps his fingers on the table, then shrugs.

“Yeah, why not. Just gotta go get my wallet later, I didn’t really bring anything with me-”

“Oh, sush! My treat, you can take care of the next one.”

Crowley laughs at that. He nods and Aziraphale smiles in return. Apparently they’ll do this again, then. Well, depending on how this one goes, Crowley figures. 

They settle on vietnamese, as Crowley knows the restaurant and Aziraphale hasn’t tried it yet and had waited for a reason to do so. While Aziraphale orders, Crowley looks around.

He can’t imagine it was only a bit over a week ago that Aziraphale moved in. The parts of the flat he can see from his chair look well lived in, everywhere are books - so many books. Although the furniture is a bit outdated, it’s a nice enough place and definitely cozier than Crowley’s.

Once the food arrived, both of them settle in a comfortable silence. Crowley finishes the last of his Pho xao, then leans back satisfied. His eyes land on the still wrapped up package. 

“May I ask you what it is you ordered? That parcel was quite heavy,” he asks and points at it. Aziraphale follows his gaze and smiles. 

“Of course. It is a book I ordered, I don’t remember why I didn’t just order it to the shop, must have been a bit too excited. It’s a first edition of - ah well, this might be boring to you. Anyways, it’s a historical, religious book, I’m glad I could purchase it.”

“The shop?” Crowley asks. He doesn’t want to tell Aziraphale that he is indeed not interested as much, now that he knows it is just a book. He likes stories, but big old books can’t really fascinate him. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale practically glows now and Crowley might smile just a bit at that.

“It’s my book shop, we have second hand, first editions, but also new stuff and all kinds of genres.” Definitely radiating now. Crowley’s glad he’s wearing his glasses.

“Hm, sweet. And all those books here go to the shop too, or…?” Crowley asks, innocently raising his eyebrows.

Aziraphale’s cheeks pinken a bit. “No, no. They’re my own one’s. I admit, I do not have enough space for them, but I hope to acquire some new shelves and maybe store some in the back of my shop.” 

They look at all the book piles surrounding them. Crowley grins.

“You could come have a look, at the shop, I mean, if you want,” Aziraphale offers, “It’s just down the street, at the corner. Red building, ‘A.Z. Fell and Co.’.”

“And what’s the Z for?”

“It’s not important.”

“Oh, I bet it is,” Crowley grins. He leans forward, empty plates and boxes pushed aside. 

“It’s really just a Z, nothing to it.” He squirms under Crowley’s blank stare. 

“It’s a joke, okay? A.Z. Fell sounds a bit like my first name.”

Crowley blinks. Aziraphale can’t see that behind those dark glasses. They look at each other in silence. Then, Crowley shakes his head and grins. He pretends he doesn’t see Aziraphale’s blush.

“Well, that’s not what I expected. Is that even allowed?”

“Why certainly! I would not do something illegal, it is just a name.” Aziraphale crosses his arms. He regards Crowley with a disdainful look.

“And who are you to judge, I don’t even know your first name.”

“Are you asking me?”

“I- yes. Because I think I might like you and if we plan on dining together again, I’d like to know that.” Aziraphale pauses. “That is, if you’re comfortable with it.” He doesn’t want to press Crowley. But he’d like to get to know the man better and he thinks names are a fair start. After all, he already knows Aziraphale’s full name.

“Huh. I’m Anthony. Anthony Crowley, but if you don’t mind, I like to be called Crowley.”

“Interesting, you have a lovely name. But of course, if you’re more comfortable with it, Crowley it is.” Aziraphale smiles at him and Crowley thinks for just a second that it might not be so bad, if this man called him Anthony. 

“Great. I think I should leave now, it’s really late,” he says and gets up. Aziraphale follows him to the door.

“I enjoyed dining with you, Crowley.”

“Me too, my treat next time. I hope you like wine,” Crowley answers. Aziraphale laughs and nods. 

“I do! Perfect, good night and sleep well, dear.”

There it was again. ‘Dear’. Crowley’s smile softens and he waves as a goodbye, already heading over to his flat. 

“G’night to you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear how you liked it!


	6. Yoga mats and love letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says in the title, also more pining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> This one's not beta'd, as I am impatient and incompetent -  
> have fun!
> 
> I'll be on holidays this weekend so probably no new chapters til Monday my dear readers.

It has been a week since Crowley brought over the book and they dined together. He’s currently seated on the floor, surrounded by his plants. The lights are dimmed and his glasses sit safely next to the pot of a large, freshly watered Philodendron.

As someone who takes good care of his appearance, Crowley tries to stick to at least some workouts to make up for his terrible diet. Aside from boxing when he needs to get rid of any unwanted emotions (he should either  box more or be less moody) he likes slow, conscious sports best. The yoga mat sits stark against the dark wooden floor.

Crowley takes a deep breath, eyes closed, then shifts from one position into the next. Most of the time, his record player blasts rock and indie, right now it’s softened to quiet piano music. He hums along whenever he’s got enough breath to do so. If he were to do his exercises without any music, he’d go mad with circling thoughts.

Not that he has a lot of black thoughts. His life couldn’t be better, objectively. He lives in a nice enough flat, his plants are doing great. His hair and nails are healthier than ever, he has more money than he can spend. Huh, money. Better not think about that. 

Crowley knows exactly, why his life is so perfect and yet more a cage than anything. It certainly had its advantages, to have a family with tons of money. And no interest in you. Or, well, they were interested in keeping him as far away and quiet about their relationship as possible. 

For a long time, Crowley used their disgust and downright fear to get what he wanted, threaten to expose them with their disappointment of an offspring. It was only a few years ago that he lost interest in that. Spite was a nice fuel, but it only worked for so long. Now, Crowley was exhausted. Not to mention, deeply hurt. Right, don’t mention it.

He takes another deep breath and stretches his spine long in a pike, before he decides to end his pilates-yoga-mashup-whatever session for now. He knows he could’ve gone on for at least half an hour more, but he didn’t like the track his thoughts decided to take. So much for that. He glares at the record player.

Releasing an annoyed sigh, he rolls up the mat and puts it back into the alcove. The leggings and breathable tops are crowding the small space. He really needs to stop buying pretty sportswear or he had to get a bigger space for all his stuff.

What would Aziraphale think, if he were to walk over in his favourite black and sheer leggings? Maybe he’d wear them with his favourite t-shirt, the one with the cut-out back. Crowley grins to himself, then shakes his head. 

He’s done with teasing poor men just to vex his family. But was that what Aziraphale was to him? Crowley wasn’t so sure. He liked his new neighbour, he really did. But was he even capable of liking anyone, anything, genuinely? According to his mother, he clearly wasn't.

Crowley shakes his head as if that would make the thoughts vanish miraculously. (It has never worked before and certainly doesn't now.)

The day passes, his mood stays. When he stumbles to bed, it is already two in the morning. As soon as he hits the mattress, he’s gone for hours.

The next day his alarm doesn’t ring. Not that he has one for most days, but you know. When he crawls out of bed, a cloudy sky meets his eyes. Snarling, he puts on his glasses. He needs to get his life...how does one get his life? Straight?

“Well, that ain’t gonna happen…”

On his way to the kitchen - a man needed food, after all - he sees something strange. Not particularly strange in itself, it was an envelope. Strange was that it was not his and had obviously been pushed under his door and now decorated his floor.

“What the hell,” Crowley mutters to himself, crouches down and takes it with him into the kitchen. While he waits for his toasts to pop up again, he examines the envelope. White, ordinary. His last name is written neatly on the back with blue ink.

He almost drops it, when the toasts come out. He let’s them sit there and opens the mysterious thing.

               ‘Dear Crowley,

I hope you’ve been well. I’m sad that I haven’t seen you since our lovely dinner.    
Hopefully, I don’t overstep any boundaries with this little letter. It was important for me to let you know that I enjoyed your company and am looking forward to the next time we see each other.    
You asked me, whether I liked wine and I said, I do. I just found a Carmignano in one of my boxes I haven’t unpacked yet.    
If you are still interested in dining together - could be lunch as well - I could bring the Carmignano along!   
I hope you are alright,

        Sincerely,   
        your friend Aziraphale’

Crowley stares at the letter. When it comes to Aziraphale, that’s apparently all he can do. He reads the sentences again. What is he supposed to do now? Write a letter back? No, that’d be stupid. He should go over and - and what then?

Absentmindedly, he nibbles at one toast. It’s grown cold already. The next one he eats with marmalade, but still his eyes are fixed on the letter. He nearly knows the words by heart when he notices something else. He lifts the paper up into the light and closer to his face. 

Tiny, faint wings are printed on the paper. At first he had thought it was just a flecked paper, the way that recycled paper often looked like. But no, there are hundreds of small angel wings printed on the paper, almost invisible because of their pale lavender-blue colour.

A small smile spreads over Crowley’s face. He looks around - as if anyone else would be able to see him in his own place. Then he stands up and allows himself a very short, very timid victory dance. Aziraphale really seems to like him! Such kind words and a lovely letter paper. 

Well. ‘Your friend’ said the letter. But still, it could have been ‘your neighbour’. Or worse, just his name. Or his last name. No, no, 'friend' was a great start.

Great start for what? Crowley doesn’t know and he is too gleeful to ruin his mood with doubt. Aziraphale with the angel paper and a lovely italian wine. Were Crowley fourteen again he might have run to his bedroom, singing and dancing and dreaming of being called Anthony Fell soon. Crowley-Fell? This happened far too often, better not seal it with a name like that.

And he  _ wasn’t _ falling. For heaven’s sake, he can’t be. He doesn’t know Aziraphale enough for that. And Aziraphale obviously doesn’t know Crowley enough to be annoyed, disgusted or bored... yet. Sigh. 

_ No _ . He would not let his dark thoughts get the best of him. Crowley straightens his shoulders, pins the letter on his small magnetic board for notes (that he never uses, but it is black and shiny, so). He would use this day like a normal human being and then - tomorrow - he’d take Aziraphale out for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you think about this chapter!


	7. Pasta and Sunglasses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter for the weekend! this is not beta'd, all mistakes are mine and i don't need them back -  
> I'll be busy til sunday evening, so next chapter might come on monday.
> 
> enjoy reading!

Crowley can’t sleep. He spends a restless night more awake than asleep and rises at 7 am. His body is confused and does not cooperate with him at such an unusual hour. His hair is a pigeon nest and his left foot has gone dead. He hobbles from bed to sofa in a very graceful manner.

All his curtains are drawn shut and he feels more dead than awake so he forgoes his sunglasses for the moment.

To slowly start into the day he turns on the tv, tucks himself in the soft leather cushions, the numb foot dangling off the armrest. Before he even registers the morning program, he falls back to sleep. 

When he wakes up again it is already 11. Now, that’s a reasonable time to rise and shine. He turns off the tv, gets ready (this time for real, more rested and with no numb limbs) and finds himself in front of the letter again an hour later. His friend Aziraphale. A grin spreads across his face. 

He tends to his plants, then grabs his keys and wallet and heads out. It’s midday, so Aziraphale should be at his shop, right? He sees the letter before his eyes, tiny angel wings imprinted, neat handwriting, that signature. His sunglasses block out all the hurtful sunbeams as he sashays down the street. There’s really no other way to describe his walk, Crowley feels as if he’s walking on clouds, confidence dripping from his shoulders, the slight London breeze blowing his hair out of his face, making it curl even more. Crowley feels fantastic.

He’s walked a few minutes when he spots the red building. It’s an old store, he must have passed it dozens of times, but never paid close attention to it. He wasn’t a fan of reading, he liked music better. At least that’s how it is now, as a child he had liked books. 

He straightens his spine, then slumps down even more - he is cool. Very cool. Cooler than ice. A nervous hand flits to his face, pushing the glasses in place and detangling a red lock of hair from it. Now or never.

The door opens with the soft noise of wood scraping across carpet. Immediately, Crowley smells the books. It’s a crowded shop, isles and shelves with numerous works displayed. He takes a few steps into the room, a bit overwhelmed. He likes to go shopping, but most of the time it’s clothes and food. This differs from his usual shopping spheres. 

“Good day, can I help-  _ oh _ ! Oh, Crowley, hello!”

Crowley turns and beams at Aziraphale, who comes up to him from the back of the shop. 

“Hey, Aziraphale, how are you?” Crowley doesn’t know where to put his hands. How does one stand casually? He fidgets and pushes his thumbs into his pant pockets. Phew.

“I am great, feeling great, how about you? Do you like the shop?”

“Uh, yeah, let me take a look first,” Crowley smirks, glad he’s got something to do. Well, technically he already has something to do - invite him to lunch. But talking about the book shop should be allowed before he dives into that adventure.

“It’s errr- nice. I mean, you’ve got a lot of books.” No shit. Crowley could kick himself.

“I do! I mean, I have my favourites, of course, but I need some to sell as well, don’t I?” Somehow Aziraphale sounds as if he doesn’t like the idea of customers coming in and actually buying something. Crowley shoots him an amused look and nods.

“Certainly. Uh, I got your letter, by the way-,” Crowley stops himself and tries to think of a decent way to invite Aziraphale to something that has already been settled a week ago. Oh, who cares. “Anyways, what do you think about going out for lunch? Or if that’s not possible with your working hours here, we could go for dinner? I don’t mind either.”

His thumbs must have pierced holes into his pockets by now.

“Aww, what a lovely idea,” Aziraphale smiles, as if they never talked about that before. Crowley feels relief wash over him. His hands relax, another smile tucks at his mouth.

“It’s what, almost one now, right? Yeah, I think lunch would be appropriate.” Aziraphale walks past him to turn the sign in the door so it says ‘Closed’. He comes back to Crowley.

“Let me just get my things, dear, do you know where you’d like to eat?” He already vanishes into the back of the shop. Crowley follows him tentatively, then waits at the shop counter.

‘Dear’. He shakes his head, but the stupid grin stays on. Aziraphale probably calls everyone ‘dear’, he tries to argue, after all why would he call him that? Specifically him? No reason. 

“So?” Aziraphale is back, a cream-white coat open over his clothes. He seems almost as eager as Crowley, if that's possible.

“Yeah, right. There’s this little Italian place, it’s literally on the other side of our - errrrr you know, opposite from  _ the _ house. The building. Where we both have our flats in and - yes. I’m sure you’ve seen it before.”

Aziraphale either doesn’t notice (highly unlikely) or is so kind to ignore Crowley’s stammering (more likely). But instead of the sweet smile Crowley expected, he flushes and doesn’t look at Crowley. Only when he opens the door, he meets his eyes again. 

“I think I have, yes. But I haven’t eaten there yet, what a great opportunity to do so.”

“Uh... okay,” Crowley agrees. He walks outside and eyes Aziraphale when he locks the shop. They stroll down the street together, Crowley slightly decelerating to match Aziraphale’s pace.

They pass their building and cross the road. Crowley, who has been silent for the walk, but watched Aziraphale carefully, notices the faintest blush again.

“Are you okay?” He didn’t mean to say that out loud. A teasing grin takes over his nonchalant expression. Aziraphale looks at him like a deer caught in headlights.

“Of course, perfectly fine. Oh, there we are. Do we want to go inside?” Now that he’s got Aziraphale so flustered, he can’t really stop, can he? He feels his usual confidence creep back and it feels like coming home.

“Awww, come on. What is it that you’re hiding, Zira?” 

Whoops. That’s what karma is, isn’t it? 

“What did you call me?”

“Uhhhh…”

“I like it,” Aziraphale says. He opens this door too, gesturing for Crowley to walk in. 

“Thank you,” Crowley mutters. He still hasn’t gotten an answer, but what choices does he have here. A beautiful gentleman opening the door for him - there is no choice, he knows how to behave. Also, he accepted the accidental nickname. Pet name? Crowley grins. 

At least they get a seat by one of the windows, so close enough. Crowley likes to sit outside, it’s less noisy and he can watch the people on the street.

They study the menu for a while, at least Aziraphale does. Crowley has been here often enough to know what he wants. They order food and wine, Aziraphale’s offered bottle forgotten for now. Crowley hasn’t forgotten about it, but he thinks with the bottle still existing there’ll be need for another...date? Whatever one might want to call it. ( _ Date. _ )

They talk throughout the waiting for the food and even when the food arrives, although the conversation slows down a lot. Crowley asks Aziraphale about his shop, his last week and how the moving is going - Aziraphale gladly tells him that finally all boxes are unpacked. 

Once they order desserts - Crowley feels stuffed already, but couldn’t say no to a small portion of Panna Cotta - almost an hour of eating and talking has passed. They spend a few minutes in comfortable silence, looking outside.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says to get his attention, “May I ask you something?”

“You’ve asked me a whole lot today already, don’t you think?” Crowley smirks at him, but then gestures for him to continue. Aziraphale bites his lip and Crowley can practically see him quarreling. 

“Why do you always wear sunglasses?”

They look at each other. Or, Crowley looks into beautiful blue eyes and Aziraphale looks at pitch black sunglasses. Crowley sighs. It’s not a big deal - it shouldn’t be a big deal. 

“Don’t you like my look?” He grins. He knows it’s not what Aziraphale wants to hear.

“Well, I thought it was about the look at first. And don’t get me wrong, please, they suit you. I’m sorry if that’s something personal,” Aziraphale replies. He looks genuinely sorry for overstepping some boundary he didn’t know about. And how could he know, Crowley can’t blame him for being curious. 

“No, it’s fine, it’s errr-” Crowley rubs his temple. Just get it over with, it's not that bad.

“Uh, I can show you, I guess. Not for too long tho, there’s a reason I’m wearing these besides them being fashionable.” He takes the glasses off. The daylight begins to hurt his eyes already, but it’s not too bad. He looks at Aziraphale and expects a gasp or a horrified look.

Instead, Aziraphale huffs a soft ‘oh’ and leans a bit forward. A smile spreads over his face and he shakes his head.

“But why would you be afraid to show them?”

“I’m not.” He is. “But it’s not just a ‘funny look’,” he draws quotation marks into the air while saying that. He wished it was, that’d make for far less doctor’s appointments.

“It’s called Aniridia, it's, well - as you can see, no irises. I can’t really see without special darker glasses, so. Yeah.” He puts his glasses back on, Aziraphale becomes clearer and contrasty again.

“I see, good to know. I didn’t know that existed, but I’m glad you have the glasses to help you. I imagine it’s just like getting used to wearing a watch.”

“It’s similar, yeah,” Crowley smiles. Although Aziraphale is such a sweetheart, he only feels safe again, when the food arrives and they go back to happier topics. His eyes cast him out even before his sexuality did, naturally he preferred other topics over the black pools of his.

The rest of their lunch passes by quickly. Crowley pays and they step outside into the cloudy day. Aziraphale sighs, satisfied with the meal and quality time spent.

“This was lovely, thank you.”

“My pleasure, I guess you’re going back to your book shop?” Crowley doesn’t want him to leave yet. He also doesn’t know what he’d do if Aziraphale  _ had  _ free time to spend.

“Yes, I need to open at least for a few more hours. Nevertheless, this break was really welcome. I think we need to repeat that soon.”

“I’d love to,” Crowley agrees. They walk across the street again, stopping by their front door. Crowley gets his keys, but looks at Aziraphale once more to say goodbye. 

“You know-”

“So uh-”

They stop, grinning. Aziraphale clasps his hands behind his back, nodding for Crowley to go first. Crowley shakes his head, still grinning. “I just wanted to say bye, so you need to go first but now that’s fucked up.”

Aziraphale shoots him a look that tells exactly what he thinks of the word choice, but Crowley can also see the amusement spark behind that facade.

“Fair enough. And I just wanted to tell you that you don’t have to be ashamed for your eyes, they are magnificent. I, at least, like them very much. Have a good day.”

“I- thank you,” now he’s the one blushing. How dare Aziraphale. Before he can reply something more eloquent, the blonde man is on his way back to his shop. Crowley laughs at himself and goes back home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me your thoughts 👀


	8. Meeting the Family (sort of)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's brother visits. Crowley tries to be the knight in shining armour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be proud!! I'm just back from a bachelorette party/weekend/hens night/weekend and I am Dead. But here you are.  
> All mistakes are mine, I need sleep, tea and a thesaurus implanted in my brain.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it anyways! This is unbeta'd and probably awkward.  
> Have fun :D

_"I think we need to repeat that soon."_

Crowley agrees. The last day he still felt the high from their lunch together. Is it too soon to stop by the shop again today? Surely nearly 48 hours should be enough.

After a hearty breakfast (spent in front of a _Golden Girls_ rerun in his sportswear) he proceeds with some pilates. If he talks to his plants about his lunch with Zira, no one will ever know.

It's about 12.30 when he leaves his flat. His hair is once again neatly - with the right amount of messiness to be considered cool - tucked in a half-bun, he also wears colour for once. Red for...passion? It's only the slightest bit, a dark red shirt paired with his favourite pants.

It's a remarkable sunny day, Crowley has to walk among a crowd of people, but he doesn't mind. Far from it, he enjoys himself and the happy people around him. In the next moment, he stands in front of the book shop.

"Good day, Aziraphale!" Crowley enters the seemingly empty shop. Seemingly, because now he can hear the voices.

"-eriously, don't you thrive for something more? More successful?"

"I think owning and running a shop, being self-employed and independent, is enough. And I _am_ successful, mind you." That's clearly Aziraphale. The voices come from the back of the shop and Crowley hesitates.

This is obviously a private conversation he should stay out of. But then, Aziraphale sounds so defensive. Crowley knows he should leave. It's none of his business. He turns quietly.

The other, booming voice replies: "Successful? If that's what you want to call hiding in dust and pages. Sure, so very successful, the pride of us all. Why don't you drop this already and join my firm? Don't let that Yale Law time go to waste."

Crowley, hand outstretched for the door, stops dead. It's one thing for him to be treated like trash by his family. He accepted that a long time ago, but this person talking to his Aziraphale like that?

Without another thought he storms into the back of the room.

"Hey Zira, I called for you, _oh, there you are_. And who are you?"

Politer than he expected from himself, yet absolutely intruding and probably offensive from another point of view. He stops by Aziraphale's side, eyeing the broad man.

"Aziraphale, again?! You know, it doesn't do you any good to protest in form of fraternising with... failed rockstar-imitates." Crowley raises an eyebrow. Aziraphale gasps and looks at him.

"Gabriel! This is inaccurate in all ways. And I am not protesting against anything, except for you invalidating my life choices."

"So, books and people like _that one_ it is for you, then?"

Ouch. Crowley begins to regret his decision. He can't get a good word in for Aziraphale and apparently makes the conversation so much worse with just existing in the same room.

"Yes, it is. Look, I respect your choices and lifestyle. It's only polite for you to do the same."

Gabriel scoffs and Crowley considers for a second to throw all his pacifist beliefs over board and put his boxing knowledge to use.

"Fine. You do you, Aziraphale. But don't bring your boyfriend along for the next family dinner."

The obviously still angry man leaves without another word. Crowley jumps, when the shop's door closes violently.

Aziraphale let's out a deep sigh and slumps into the armchair next to him. 

"Hello, Crowley. I apologise for my brother's behaviour."

Crowley blinks and shrugs. He still feels incredibly stupid for running in here only to stare at a family fight. He shakes himself out of the stupor. What happened, happened, he can't change it. Neither can he change that he froze and watched. It's hard to break old habits, staring helplessly is one of these.

"No need to, he seems like a proper jerk."

"He can be," Aziraphale chuckles. He looks up at Crowley, turning serious again.

"But I really am sorry, he's so insensitive and will never be willing to take on another's perspective."

"I know that sort," Crowley agrees. He doesn’t want to share own family stories now, though. This was Aziraphale’s tough moment and he just wants to be there for him. He also doesn’t want to talk about his family in general.

“You know, I think your book shop is great. And as long as it makes you happy that should be all that counts, right?”

Aziraphale nods. He lets his hands stroke over some ancient looking books. He rises from his chair and dusts off his immaculate cream-coloured shirt.

“I am happy, I really am. I’d just love my father and brother to see that too. Not everybody needs to join the family business.”

Crowley agrees, then grins.

“You studied law? In _America_?”

Aziraphale blushes and gets up, busies himself with dusting off some books when he sees there’s no more imagined specks he can wipe off his clothes.

“I did, it was interesting.”

“Very zealous, but why didn’t you - I don’t know, become a lawyer then?”

“I-,” Aziraphale hesitates. When he casts his eyes down, Crowley almost withdraws the question. “I don’t like myself when I’m in lawyer-mode. I don’t want to become like my father or Gabriel, so cold and forceful, always pushing for the most profitable deal.”

“Wow, you have no idea, but you sound like me when I- never mind.”

“You sure?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley simply nods, he’s not up for the whole family talk just yet. He makes his way over to the main room of the book shop again, gesturing for the door.

“What do you think about lunch?”

“I like lunch. But, Crowley?”

“Yes?” They look at each other, Crowley waits patiently at the door. He sees the other one fidgeting, but doesn’t know how to make this easier for him. So he waits.

“Would you- uhm-”, Crowley can’t be entirely sure, but it sounds like Aziraphale curses under his breath. He suppresses a grin.

“I hope you didn’t take offence in Gabriel so mindlessly calling you my boyfriend.”

Somehow, Crowley feels like that’s not what Aziraphale wanted to say in the first place. But he takes it. After all, he just used the words “my boyfriend” and meant him. He could go back and kiss him, but that seems a bit too much.

“No offence whatsoever. I’d love to join your next family dinner,” he says with a wink. He opens the door to let a slightly flustered Aziraphale out into the sunshine.

“Trust me, you don’t want that. But we could do sushi for today? I think I need some comfort food.”

“You just want to stab the poor bits and pretend it’s your brother.”

“You haven’t got any proof for that.” At that Crowley laughs and Aziraphale offers an innocent grin. Although they averted the really important topic here (whether or not they should be dating and what this whole boyfriend-thing really was), Crowley couldn’t be happier. That’s what you call progress. Taking it slow, but moving forward. Crowley isn’t the best at patience, but he knows he wants to go slow this time. Do it right. Make it work, for him and also for Aziraphale.

They go to Aziraphale’s favourite sushi place and if Crowley calls him Zira a few more times and Aziraphale says “good-bye, my dear”, well - no one will ever know, except for these two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeay, you made it til the end!  
> I'd love to hear what you think about this one 👀


	9. Flower Crowns, Anathema and Souvlaki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets a job. It's also time for another lunch date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone needs to stop me, the chapters become increasingly longer and so is my time spent on this fic, but I really can't stop, it's so much fun. I am so invested and I should be writing a term paper...ANYWAYS :D
> 
> This is not beta'd, **if anyone wants to beta the next one, let me know!**  
>  I'm still not a native speaker, I'm just a lover of writing.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (I had so much fun writing this chapter, you have no idea.)

The next days pass in a rush. Crowley’s mind circles around his neighbour almost non-stop, which shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but he doesn't want to appear needy. Or stalker-ish.

The solution is a regulation and structure to his daily routine. Technically, he knows his habits aren’t supporting his mental health and life balance. He doesn’t need money, but he does need some kind of work to keep his mind occupied with more things than just Aziraphale’s intoxicating smile, fluffy hair and immaculate fashion, stories about weird customers, sweet laugh, fascination with food and beautiful way of calling Crowley his ‘dear’. You get the gist.

So, he shows up at his favourite flower shop aka the one run by a lovely young couple who seem a bit overwhelmed with their loads of plants. It also happens to be in the opposite direction of a certain book shop, which helps. A little.

His application for a part-time employment went something like this:

_ Enter Crowley. _

_ Anathema, head florist, also makes lovely flower crowns: “Oh, hello Mr Crowley!” _

_ [from the small room in the back where the finances are done comes another voice] _

_ Newton: “Nice to see- well, hear you, Mr Crowley!” _

_ Crowley, heavy-heartedly, ignores the plants and comes right up to the cashier.  _

_ Crowley: “I’d like to support your business.” _

_ Anathema: “You have bought so many plants already, but sure, how can I help you today?” _

_ Crowley: “No, I mean. I’d love a new Jasmine, but that’s besides the point. I want to help you two with my plant expertise. You know, take care of the plants, make them look nice, grow them healthily. I don’t need to get paid.” _

_ Anathema vanishes to speak to her fiancé. They discuss the offer out of Crowley’s earshot and sight. They know he’s capable and some extra help could be the needed push for their business to really flourish. _

_ Anathema [back up front]: “Sure. We can pay you a bit, though, it’s only fair. You can start tomorrow, and work, whenever you like.” _

_ Crowley: “Fantastic. I need some routine, you know. Is it alright if i come in Mondays til Thursdays?” _

_ Newton [still from the back room]: “Yes, please! Thanks, Mr. Crowley!” _

_ Crowley leaves the shop. _

It’s wednesday and Crowley wakes up at 8. He greets his beautiful new Jasmine, which already stretches up towards the sunlit window.

He fetches a bagel on his way to work. It feels good to have something to do, some more purpose. He still has a lot of time to do his sport, tend to all of his plants and watch silly tv shows. He actively takes time for either lunch or dinner with Aziraphale every other day. They eat greek today for lunch. Tomorrow they probably won’t see each other, but Crowley knows they’ll get dinner on Friday or at the latest lunch on Saturday.

At “Witches Corner” Anathema greets him with a tea and lovely smile. He likes her a lot, he’s not as sure about Newton. Well, he is alright, but Anathema is interesting. Someone you could talk to, who doesn’t inquire too much (she accepts his clothes, his sunglasses, his glares at plants with broken leaves).

They drink tea and lemonade, talk about new soil types for some of their exotic plants. Crowley mentions he meets someone for his lunch break and suddenly the nice plant-talk turns into an interrogation, threats are made with garden gloves and some tea is spilled. Literally. Crowley has stains on his pants and is appalled. Luckily, the watery tea dries and doesn’t require a last minute clothes change.

“You _ like  _ him!” Anathema smirks.

“I do.”

“Don’t deny it, you- oh. You don’t even try to deny it.”

Crowley shrugs and turns to the little ivy at hand. He doesn’t admit it, but he needs someone to talk to from time to time. His old colleagues - friends? acquaintances? - do not understand him. Anathema, although several years younger, is just the person he needs to speak to.

“Let me get this straight-” Both suppress a chuckle at this, although Crowley rolls his eyes at the same time. He’s not a teenager anymore who giggles at word plays like that. He does not.

“You are totally in love with this guy. You both get together for lunch, dinner, whatever, almost every second day. You live door to door.” Crowley nods, confirming Anathema’s list.

“How the hell do you not interpret this as dating?”

“Because we aren’t. It’s only a date if both people agree that it’s a date. We haven’t done that.”

“Well, get on with it! Oh my goodness, how do you not die of agony? You know, you deserve to be happy, right? Don’t let yourself suffer like this and ask him already,” Anathema tells him. She vigorously ties a delicate white flower crown together and dumps it on Crowley.

“Beautiful. Now, get a grip, sweetie.” 

Crowley blushes and walks over to the small mirror that decorates one of the shop’s walls. The dainty white petals sit stark against his ginger hair. He doesn’t wear white, but he can’t say he dislikes this look. He shrugs and goes to wash the dirt off his hands and grab his jacket. He stops next to Anathema, who begins to arrange a bouquet for one of the orders they received.

“Errr, thank you. I’ll be back in an hour. Or two.” He leaves before she can wave him off. That’s what friends are for, right? 

It’s becoming a habit for Crowley to come to the book shop to take Aziraphale out for food. It’s their fifth time now, they stick to eating out instead of repeating the get together which first started this chain of culinary events. 

He enters the book shop and breathes in the familiar smell of books, the old carpet and a fresh, vanilla-ry note that belongs to Aziraphale. A few customers roam the shop, one of them already carries three books with him as he examines another shelf.

A young girl with her mother points at Crowley’s flower crown. He grins at her, when the mother tries to shush her. “Here you are,” he says as he picks out a small flower and hands it to the girl. She squeaks a ‘thank you’ and continues to look at children’s books with her mother. Crowley steps further into the room.

“Hey, Aziraphale,” he greets the man who’s invested in a book and not paying attention to his customers at all. He looks up when Crowley addresses him.

“Crowley! Oh, look at you, my dear.” He gets up, places an ornate bookmark in his current read and hides it behind his counter, away from prying buyer’s eyes. The blonde man walks around the counter with the old register on top and comes close to Crowley to take the flowery headpiece in. Then he steps back and Crowley does not blush at all as he sees Aziraphale looking him up and down. 

“Like what you see?”

“Very much, of course.” Aziraphale sounds so honest, so strikingly sincere, it makes Crowley’s heart ache. He offers a weak grin and shrugs. A verbal ‘thank you’ is not possible at the moment, try again later, Crowley is not properly functioning.

_ ‘Get a grip’  _ Anathema had said. The woman clearly doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Then again, she doesn’t know Aziraphale and his effect on Crowley. Crowley can’t be certain, but he thinks Aziraphale knows what he’s doing to him, if the mischievous glint in those blue eyes is anything to go by. Crowley feels a bit betrayed by the sweet appearance that obviously contains a lot of  sly humour.

“We should get lunch, I made sure Nikolaos booked the table at the window for us.”

“Yeah, I’m ready for food. You just need to get rid of your customers,” Crowley says. With a frown, Aziraphale calls into the room. Those who want to purchase books hastily make their way over and pay for them.

When the mother with the little girl leaves, Crowley and Aziraphale follow them, Aziraphale locking the door. 

“That child had a similar flower as you have, does that happen to be a coincidence?” Aziraphale grins when he sees them walk away, a bag full of story books.

“Absolutely, I’m not nice and I am not one for sharing.”

“Right. Then off to lunch,” Aziraphale says. They call a cab and drive half of the way to the restaurant. As the weather is still lovely, they decide to walk the rest of it and fill the time with chatter about their day so far. 

After a few minutes Aziraphale falls silent. Crowley looks at him, trying to interpret the sudden drop of conversation. They’ve enjoyed comfortable moments of silence before, but Crowley feels that this isn’t one of them. He presses his lips together and accepts Aziraphale’s silence in hopes that he’ll explain himself soon.

Finally, Aziraphale speaks up again, ever so softly: “May I try something, dear?”

They don’t stop walking, only glance at each other. Crowley focuses on the pavement again, giving a quick nod and mumbled ‘okay’.

Aziraphale reaches over, both are watching their steps rather than anything about the other.

“Is this okay?” Aziraphale interlaces his pale, soft fingers with Crowley’s slender one’s. 

“I might faint, but that’s alright,” Crowley mutters, then stops, horrified. He did not mean to say that. He  _ did not mean _ to say that. He-did-not-meantosaythatohmygod.

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand and laughs. 

“Please don’t. I can let go, if that’s what you want.”

“Don’t you dare.”

They continue to walk in silence. This time, both of them wear huge smiles. Whenever Crowley glances over, Aziraphale already looks at him. Before he let’s go when they reach their destination, Aziraphale caresses Crowley’s hand with his thumb and Crowley really sees himself blacked out on the floor already. Luckily - or sadly - Aziraphale let’s go and prevents such an inconvenience. 

Crowley opens the door and beams at Aziraphale. “Is this a - you know, then? Like, a date?”

“I’d love that, yes. If that’s alright with you, that is,” Aziraphale replies. Crowley nods, afraid of what sappy words might leave his lips. Once they are settled at the best table to watch the people outside and inside, they come back to their conversation from earlier. Although it’s back to normal, it really is not.

Crowley skips into “Witches Corner” two hours later, flower crown askew and hugs a small Kentia palm at the door. He pats its leaves, then saunters over to a knowingly grinning Anathema. He repots a few plants with her before she finally asks him about his lunch date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID YOU LIKE IT??????  
> (I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I really liked writing this one so i hope you did too. comments make me go !!!!)


	10. A fan and a phone call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley works at the "Witches Corner" and goes to dinner with Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry, this chapter is a mess. I am so proud of it.  
> Anyways, welcome back!!  
> This chapter is beta'd, yeaaay :D and I'm so happy to present it to you.
> 
> (It's a bit angsty towards the end, but don't be afraid, we'll ultimately be fine.)
> 
> Also! This one's dedicated to @EverydayClumsy, you might find some things related to your last comment in here ;)

Crowley wakes up with a fluttery feeling in his stomach. For a minute he thinks he might be sick. Then he remembers the last day. Yesterday. Holding hands with Aziraphale. Going on a date. It certainly explains the butterflies - more like bats - rioting in his stomach.

He flips from his side onto his back and lets the huge smile take over his face. It’s gonna be a great day, he can feel it. He rolls over to the other side of his bed and takes his phone off of its charging cable.

Two new messages. He opens them and bites his lip to strangle a squeal. He’s not a fourteen year old girl, he is a grown man who has his feelings under control.

_ Good morning, Anthony! I hope you slept well. Would you like to come over for dinner tonight? We can finally open the Carmignano! Your Zira _

The second message is shorter and came in only a minute later:

_ I am so sorry. Is it alright if I call you Anthony? I thought it was more personal. _

Crowley grins, shaking his head at Aziraphale being as polite and considerate as ever. He checks the time again, it’s almost half ten. The messages arrived at 8. 

He types:  _ Dear Zira-  _ and deletes it. He tries again:  _ Good morning! It’s fine, I-  _ no. 

He sighs and opts for his bathroom first. Maybe he’ll know how to send a proper text message when he’s fully awake. (Probably not.)

After his morning routine he finds himself in a fluffy bathrobe, wet hair tied in a loose knot, in his kitchen. He really needs to answer, this is why they exchanged phone numbers after all. Crowley takes a deep breath, his eyebrows furrow.

_ Good morning, Aziraphale-  _ _  
_ does he want to add emojis? Zira does not, but Crowley doesn’t think he’s the type for emojis. Is he the type to use such things? He’s gonna go crazy over this. No emojis, he matches Aziraphale’s writing style, he decides.

_ -Anthony is fine, don’t worry! Dinner sounds lovely, I’ll come over. What time?  _ Send.

Crowley sighs satisfied, then reads over the message again. Holy shit. No. No.

“Oh no!”

Crowley, as a young and hip being, likes technology. He likes Youtube, he likes internet trolls. Most of the time he likes spell check and autocorrect. Right now he could break his phone.

The sent message reads:

_ Good morning, Angel. Anthony is fine, don’t worry! Dinner sounds lovely, I’ll come over. What’s time? _

Now he can live with the small error that happened to his ‘what’. What he cannot have (and yet here it is), is his phone changing ‘Aziraphale’ to ‘Angel’. 

“What do I do now? Correct it? Leave it? Fuck,” he mutters and paces through his kitchen. The phone sits on the table, message open and glaring at Crowley. He stares at it, then closes the app. He should be relieved. The phone does all the flirting for him, it appears. 

“It’s alright,” he tells himself and walks into the room that’s occupied by plants. He waters the ones who need it and checks in on all of them. Most of them look gorgeous, just one doesn’t look perfect. The Senecio Angel Wings. Of course. He curses.

“What’s up, little one? Don’t you get enough light? Come on, you’ve got the best conditions here,” he tells the white plant with rigour. He takes it from its current place and moves it next to some other succulents so it’s a bit closer to the window. 

“Now you’ve got no excuses! Make me proud.”

He leaves his plants and flowers be, then eats some breakfast. He needs to leave for his work soon. When he’s fully dressed and ready to go, he finally gets his phone from the kitchen table. Tensely, he risks a look at the screen.

Nothing. Aziraphale is busy with his books, it seems. Or he’s ignoring Crowley. No, he isn’t - he tells himself. He pockets his phone and goes.

At the “Witches Corner”, Newton decorates the shop’s windows with fairy lights. He - and the yellow chain - light up, when he sees Crowley approach.

“Mr Crowley! Good morning, you look great.” He puts the end of the fairy lights around the door frame and moves his hand as if to greet Crowley with a handshake, but quickly pushes his hands in his jumpers pockets instead. Crowley raises an eyebrow so high that Newton can see it behind those round sunglasses. 

“Morning. It looks nice,” he says and gestures towards the tiny lights in the windows.

“T-thank you! It was Anathema’s idea, of course. I’m glad you like it! Can I offer you some, uh, tea?” Wow, does this man ever stop talking? Crowley still doesn’t know whether he likes Newton or not. Newton seems to have decided that he likes Crowley.

“I already made tea!” Anathema comes in from the back door, a small tray with three cups on it in her hands. She gives Newton a funny look and a kiss on his cheek, then she hands Crowley one of the cups.

“Thanks,” Crowley says dutifully, then leaves through the same door from which Anathema just entered. In the back, more plants are stored. He sips his tea, finds a safe place for the cup, puts on a garden apron and tends to the plants. He hears Anathema and Newton talking, but doesn’t pay attention to them. He focuses on the plants and hums a Queen song under his breath.

He plants some Aloe when Anathema joins him and Newton left for the accounting, Crowley assumes. They work perfectly together and do not get in the way of one another.

“Let’s talk about men,” she says. Crowley snorts and keeps his eyes on the small Aloes.

“There’s nothing I’d like to talk about more,” he replies.

“Great. Newt is so charmed by you, it’s hilarious.”

“Is he? I thought he was this useless in general,” Crowley quips, which earns him a slap with a garden glove that Anathema just wanted to put on.

“He is not useless,” Anathema argues, but she is smiling. Crowley chuckles and raises his hands in defence.

“Alright. And I get it, I would consider myself charming too,” he says and throws his hair around for emphasis, cocking his hips to one side and giving her his best smirk.

“And your date, Mr Aziraphale seems to agree, doesn’t he?”

This woman. She knows exactly how to destroy Crowley’s confidence. He grunts and turns back to the last Aloe. She grins and pats his shoulder.

“It’s not too bad, isn’t it? You said your date went great!”

“It did. I- my phone made a mistake today.”

“Sure, I bet your phone ruined it all,” Anathema says and rolls her eyes.

Crowley wipes the soil off his hands and drinks his tea. He leaves the back-room. Anathema follows him switches the shop’s sign from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’ and begins to work on yet another bouquet for a customer. 

“So…?” She prompts. Crowley sighs. He waters the plants in the main room of the shop and avoids her sharp gae.

“Well, his name isn’t one a phone knows, right? So, I typed in something like ‘good morning, Aziraphale, bla bla’ and I didn’t look it over before hitting send. And it corrected his name to ‘angel’!”, Crowley wails and finally turns to her with a pained look on his face.

He can see how Anathema tries to keep a composed face. She fails.

“Yeah, laugh. It’s alright. I accepted my fate.”

“Hm, do you think it’ll bother him?” She wraps some white paper around the finished bouquet and places it behind the counter. Her hands busy themselves with wiping off excess soil.

“No. I mean, I haven’t checked my phone again. The thing is, he needs to not be bothered by it.”

“Why is that so?” 

Crowley sighs again. He rubs his temples and puts the watering can down. Here he goes. The issue isn’t too bad, except for Crowley it is.

“First of all I don’t want to frighten him with sudden pet names or anything. And-” he tries to phrase his worries right, “It’s actually a funny correction. You know, he’s sent me this letter with little angel wings imprinted in it. And he’s got this gorgeous blonde hair and always dresses in light colours, and his mannerisms. He’s just- I don’t know, I guess he is quite angelic.”

“Aww,” Anathema coos, despite the look Crowley shoots her.

“Don’t ‘aww’ me.”

“But you’re adorable. And I’m sure, Aziraphale agrees. Check your phone!”

Crowley nervously tucks his hair behind his ear. Okay. He pulls the phone out of his pocket, Anathema inches closer to him and peers around him. Crowley almost smiles.

There. One new message. Anathema yelps and pokes his arm.

“Open it!”

“Would you please calm down? I’m the one freaking out here, I need you to be rational, please,” Crowley scolds her, but there’s no bite to his words.

_ I’m so happy to hear that, dear! See you tonight, I close around six, so half seven? _

“This is good, right?”

“Are you kidding me, of course it is!” Anathema looks away when the doorbell rings. A customer enters the shop and Anathema puts on a polite smile and greets them.

Crowley allows himself a small smile. The message is nothing but promising. He cannot wait for 6.30 tonight.

The day does not want to end. Once all plants are as immaculate as they’re gonna get, Crowley stays for a bit longer. Every now and then customers come in. He doesn’t talk to them, Anathema does. Eventually, he really hasn’t got anything to do here, he bids his good-bye for today - after his conversation with Anathema, he teases Newton a bit before he finally leaves.

At home, he does some yoga to calm his nerves. Time continues to move slowly. Crowley takes his time to get ready, he bathes and sings along to his record player. The lights in the bathroom are dimmed, his glasses abandoned.

Fifteen minutes before he heads over to Aziraphale’s, he gets dressed. He spends five minutes in front of his mirror, has narrowed his options down to two. Ultimately, he knows which one to pick. The one he feels best, most comfortable and maybe a bit sexy in. Who is he kidding, he only wears clothes which make him feel sexy. 

But it’s still a difference from his usual look. He can’t put his finger on why, but he doesn’t want to dress up. Sure, he is fashionable, but it’s not a business meeting and if he and Aziraphale really want to get to know each other, he should show some other sides of him as well.

That’s why he knocks at Aziraphale’s door dressed in a black hoodie (phone and keys in the large kangaroo pocket), black leggings and bright red socks. It’s one of his go-to outfits to feel comfy and safe. And his legs look incredible in leggings, he’s been told.

“Good evening, perfect timing,” Aziraphale greets him, when he opens the door. Crowley is relieved to see him without the bow tie and leather shoes - otherwise he might have felt underdressed regardless of his confidence in his look. Aziraphale is illuminated by the lights from his corridor; he’s all cream-colours and soft smiles. Crowley melts a bit.

“Good evening to you, too.” Crowley walks in and stops in front of Aziraphale. Do they hug? Do they...kiss? He leans down and places a delicate kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek. They proceed into the kitchen, Crowley walks ahead, missing the smitten look Aziraphale gives him. 

In the kitchen it smells like garlic, tomatoes and fresh bread. Crowley sneaks up to a bubbling red sauce in a pot and inhales. Although Aziraphale texted him that they’d eat at his place, Crowley wasn’t sure what that meant. But apparently his date took it upon him to cook them something to go with the wine. Speaking of which, Aziraphale pours them a glass each.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tries to get his attention, offered glass in hand. Crowley is absorbed in thoughts of a cooked meal just for him and the delicious smells from the sauce, the oven and the underlying note of Aziraphale’s vanilla scent which lingers in the flat.

“Anthony, dear,” Aziraphale tries again, the grin clearly audible.

“Huh? Oh- sorry! Thank you, I was a million miles away.” He takes the glass and offers Aziraphale an apologetic smile.

“I noticed.”

“Don’t be mad, I was just appreciating you cooking for me.”

“I’m not mad,” Aziraphale smiles, then attempts in a more serious tone: “But I like when your attention is on me. On me in the present, not as a lingering impression when looking into sauce.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow and puts his wine glass aside. He walks the last meter over to Aziraphale and takes his hands. He smirks at Aziraphale.

“I am sorry. Is this better?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Hm, didn’t take you for such a bossy person, Zira,” Crowley jokes. He is surprised, but he has to admit that he likes it. Although Aziraphale is a soft and polite man, he knows what he wants (namely, Crowley). And Crowley finds that incredibly hot.

“I am not bossy,” Aziraphale argues, almost offended.

“No, not at all.” When Crowley grins, Aziraphale gives in with an eye roll and a reluctant smile. Crowley lifts one of their interlaced hands and kisses the back of Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale’s cheeks gain a beautiful soft pink tint and Crowley could just kiss him. Wait a second - he really could. Could he? He leans ever so slightly down.

A sudden “ _ Empty spaces - what are we living for? Abandoned places, I guess-”  _ cuts through the moment. Crowley jumps and Aziraphale looks for the source of the music. 

Crowley retrieves his phone from his pocket and his face takes on a carefully blank expression. He considers the name of the caller and lets it ring. He knows he needs to take the call, otherwise it’d be ringing all evening. 

“I’m sorry, I need to get that,” he apologises to Aziraphale, who nods in return.

“No problem, dear. I’ll take care of the bread.” Aziraphale busies himself as Crowley leans against the kitchen’s door frame. He does not particularly want Aziraphale to listen to his conversation, but he doesn’t want to walk too far away either. 

“Yes?” He answers the phone with as much disinterest as he can muster.

_ “Anthony, we’ve got business to talk about.”  _ Crowley rolls his eyes. 

“Hi, good evening to you too.”

_ “Don’t do that, you know I don’t care for small talk.”  _ Yeah, no shit. Crowley suppresses a sigh and rubs his temples. This woman is giving him a headache already.

“Sorry. What d’you want then?”

_ “You need to get back here, or at least take care of finances again. This new one is okay, but he can’t replace you. Make yourself useful for once.”  _

Crowley knows he should laugh at that.  He's always only ever been a part of the family when he was 'useful'. As soon as he stopped to live his life the way he imagined it, he suddenly became 'pathetic'' ’, ‘disgusting’ and a ‘disgrace’. But now she needs something. Of course, why else would she call.

“I don’t care,” he says and hates how defeated he sounds. He feels Aziraphale’s eyes on him but doesn’t dare to look at him. He feels like this might be the last straw.

_ “And I don’t care that you don’t care. I can easily cut you off from your money. You know that, are you sure you could live in poverty?” _

Crowley doesn’t reply. His headache increases with every word, his mouth feels dry. Aziraphale’s clattering in the background has stopped. Crowley’s eyes dart over and he meets Zira’s gaze. He offers a helpless smile, but it means a lot to Crowley. 

“I’m not coming back. I can-,” he sighs and rubs vigorously at his temples, letting his sunglasses slip down, “-okay. Only this one thing, whatever. Send me the details and I’l take care of it. I am not taking any more part in this.”

_ “I knew you’d be reasonable, Anthony. You’ll receive my mail. I expect you to take care of all the financials til next week. That’s it, you don’t have to be involved any further.” _

She hangs up. Crowley pushes his phone back in his pocket, stumbles over to the kitchen table and half-falls into the closest chair. He buries his head in his hands. Breathe. Breathe.

“Anthony, are you alright?” Aziraphale means well. Crowley knows that. 

“Can you- I’m sorry. Can you call me Crowley tonight? I know I messaged you that it’s alright, but, I- I can’t-” Crowley knows he’s ranting. Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder stops him.

“Of course, dear.” Aziraphale pushes the other chair over so he can sit down next to Crowley. With struggle Crowley lifts his head and sees the loving eyes of Aziraphale. He puts on a weak smile and knows it’s probably more of a sad grimace.

“I’m sorry. I am a mess, I’m ruining the dinner.”

“No, dear, don’t you apologise! I’m here for you,” Aziraphale immediately reassures him and gently caresses Crowley’s exposed neck and threads his fingers through the soft curls.

Crowley closes his eyes. The last two years weren’t too bad. One call in the first year - it was manageable. A visit a few months ago was a lot, but he pushed through. He’s disappointed in himself, he should know how to deal with them. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aziraphale asks quietly. Crowley doesn’t want to. He should talk about it, especially if he wants to be around Aziraphale and wants to get to know him better - Aziraphale deserved the same. Although, nobody deserved that. Maybe he’s protecting Aziraphale with not telling him - no. No, he wants to be honest.

“Oh, it’s stupid-”

“It is not,” Aziraphale stops him, determined, “it clearly affects you and I am taking your feelings seriously. You should do that too.”

Crowley eyes him warily. He’s not good at acknowledging his feelings. At least not his feelings towards his family, other feelings are debatable.

“I- yeah. So, you probably know about Red?”

“The colour?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley huffs, slightly amused.

“No. The one arms deal thingy. Big company, important in the business,” Crowley says darkly. He can’t look at Aziraphale, partly because his eyes and headache are killing him, his sunglasses are carelessly dropped in front of him. He has his eyes closed anyways.

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard the name. I’m not too familiar with the industry,” Aziraphale says carefully. Crowley can tell he’s confused.

“I’m too familiar with it. My mother runs the company.”

Silence. Crowley’s face is buried in his arms, his voice muffled. Still, Aziraphale’s hand softly strokes through his hair. It’s the only thing that keeps Crowley grounded.

“Your mother is Carmine Zugiber.”

“You said you don’t know the industry,” Crowley mumbles. He’d hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t know too much about it. And yet, he seems to connect the dots and his hand keeps on soothing him. 

“I don’t, not really. So, weapons, yeah? As in heavy arms?”

“Yeah. But I don’t- well. It’s not possible to avoid them. I’m not directly in contact with any arms. Never been. But I managed the finances for a while.”

Aziraphale says nothing. Crowley fumbles for his sunglasses and lifts his head when he can see properly. He tries to read Aziraphale’s face. Anxious, he takes his hand, the one that’s not still placed at the nape of his neck.

“What’s on your mind?” He’s afraid of the answer. Aziraphale seems awfully collected. Well, it isn’t too hard compared to Crowley’s state at the moment. 

“I’m trying to figure out what scared you away from her. I mean, I’m not a fan of war and any ways of supporting wars. But this is on a personal level, isn’t it?”

“Hell, you’re too clever for your own sake. I’m glad you’re not a lawyer,” Crowley grins. He wipes away some unshed tears from the corners of his eyes.

“I’ve had a hard time fitting into my family. You know, skinny little kid with no interest in fighting. A boy who doesn’t care for war, how appalling. My mother’s not really...motherly. My father was alright, died a few years ago. ‘Crowley’ is his last name.”

Aziraphale nods solemnly. “I see, you want to distance yourself from her.”

“I try to. The good thing with a mother like her is you could do anything, money’s not an issue. The problems begin, when your wishes don’t agree with hers,” Crowley explains. Talking becomes a bit easier now. He faces Aziraphale and sees recognition.

“My family is similar, you’ve heard Gabriel,” Aziraphale says. 

“So, I studied finances and management. I’m good with numbers, I’m a risk-taker and I take chances when I see them - in business,” he adds and blushes. As they’ve seen, he’s not as good and confident at risk-taking when it comes to Aziraphale. Zira smiles and squeezes his hand.

“But then?”

“But I never really consented to the whole- well, all of it. I have a hard time accepting what I did, although I know it’s against my beliefs. For my mother it’s not about people, it’s about profit. And it sucks,” he grins with too many teeth. He leans over, his head resting against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“So, here I am. A queer man, pacifist, son of the head of Red. With my mother it’s impossible for me to really find other work in the field I’m good at. It’s not like I can just quit her and start over new. Unless I want to live among the puffins in Iceland. Which I considered.”

“But you haven’t worked for her in a while? And you don’t want to?” Aziraphale asks carefully. He rests his chin on top of Crowley’s head. 

“Yeah. I’ve kind of stopped? She found some guy who works cheaply for her and it was fine, she didn’t really need me except for one or two delicate decisions. As long as someone else is willing to take my job - and there are enough people - I can live my own life, basically. I’m still part of the company, I get money I don’t want. I donate a lot of it, actually.”

“That’s good, Crowley,” Aziraphale agrees. He listens patiently.

“And that’s it. I’m mostly on my own, but every once in a while, she commands me back. I don’t even think she needs me for most of it, it’s just to make sure I still do what she wants me to do,” he sighs. 

“I’m sorry for unloading all of this. You asked for it,” Crowley chuckles. He rubs with his sleeve over his face and adjusts his glasses. Aziraphale simply looks at him. 

Crowley feels small and vulnerable in his huge hoodie, face red and hair tousled - and yet he feels safe. Before Aziraphale gets to say anything, Crowley embraces him. It’s a crushing hug, with all his worries, all his insecurities - and with all his affection.

Aziraphale hugs him back, pulling him even closer.

“It’s alright, dear. It’s alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? 👀👀👀


	11. Ice cream and kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the evening at Aziraphale's place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gahhh, welcome back!  
> I know, the end of the last chapter was a pain, but here I am with a band aid.  
> Have fun, live long, point out mistakes if you find some!

Aziraphale whispers softly to Crowley and they move from the kitchen to the now fully furnished living room. A cushy sofa welcomes them. Crowley rests his feet in Aziraphale’s lap and sighs in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he says the dozenth time. 

“No need to be,” Aziraphale replies. He rests his hands on Crowley’s ankles.

For a few minutes they sit in silence, Crowley tries to collect himself. He’s such a cry-baby. He wipes over his eyes one last time, threads his hands through the mess that is his hair and releases a deep exhale.

“Huh, what an evening.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agrees and stretches. The soft jumper rises with his movement. Crowley’s glad he’s wearing his glasses and that Aziraphale’s eyes are not on him. 

They keep quiet until Aziraphale lightly taps Crowley’s feet.

“I’m gonna fetch some food, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah! We can just go back to the kitchen, you know.”

Aziraphale shakes his head and hands Crowley the remote control with a smile. He leaves and Crowley, rightfully unsure, turns on the tv. He zaps through various channels and hasn’t settled on anything when Aziraphale comes back with two bowls.

“I think we need some light entertainment.”

Crowley hums his agreement, finds a rerun of some sitcom and turns the volume down a bit. He accepts one of the bowls and peers inside. Pasta, the lovely sauce, some garlic bread balanced on top. Crowley’s mouth waters just from looking at it.

“This looks delicious,” he remarks. Aziraphale beams at him and takes a bite of his bread. He nods, swallows, taps his mouth with a paper towel, then he answers.

“Thank you, I hope you like its taste as well.”

Instead of answering, Crowley gives the meal a go. It tastes just like it looks, downright heavenly. He sighs, this time with pleasure. They eat in silence, occasionally smiling over the sitcom, glancing at one another when one laughs out loud.

“That was. Wow. Absolutely delicious, thank you.” Aziraphale accepts his compliment with a flustered grin and takes the empty bowls back to the kitchen. Crowley follows him, can’t resist the tempting kitchen counter and hops onto it. His legs dangle in a careless manner and he stretches to get his hands on one of the yet untouched glasses of wine. 

After Aziraphale placed their dishes into the dishwasher, he turns and finds Crowley casually up on his precious kitchen worktop. He frowns, then takes the remaining glass.

“I’d toast to another lovely evening like this, but…” Aziraphale trails off, coughing slightly.

Crowley shows a plastic smile. Better not toast to that, right. But he has another idea. He clinks his glass against Aziraphale’s:

“To you, because you caught me.” No sarcasm, no jokes. Aziraphale looks at him with a faint smile, “And to you, because you trusted me with something so personal.”

They drink in comfortable silence. Crowley sets his glass down and nudges Aziraphale’s thigh with his foot. When he looks at Crowley expectantly, Crowley only shrugs and grins. They don’t need to speak. Crowley just likes to keep a physical connection to Aziraphale. He lazily swings his leg back and forth, ever so lightly tapping against Aziraphale’s legs.

“Hey, Crowley?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve got two questions for you,” Aziraphale says casually, inching closer to Crowley. Suspiciously, he fixes his sunglasses and keeps his leg still. When Aziraphale doesn’t speak, he raises his eyebrows impatiently. 

“First one: What did you want to do earlier? You know, before the fatal phone call?”

Crowley’s amused snort gets stuck in his throat. Aziraphale’s come incredibly close, he’s only a breath away from leaning against Crowley’s legs. Decisively, he spreads his legs and tucks Aziraphale close, right up to the kitchen counter and between Crowley’s long limbs.

He feels rather than hears his breath hitch, so close. Crowley tilts his head to the side, lets his breath ghost over Aziraphale’s pale skin, creating a beautiful blush.

“What do you think I wanted to do?” He asks in return, a teasing smile on his lips. Aziraphale gazes at him, steady and not as affected as Crowley expected. Aziraphale tilts his head and just before their lips touch - Crowley closes his eyes - he pulls back a bit. Crowley gapes at him.

“You bastard!” It’s more a whine than an impactful insult, even Crowley can admit that. It’s Aziraphale’s turn to grin slyly.

“Second question: Do you plan on using that nickname more often?”

“Wha- oh. Uh, why?” Very eloquent. Crowley closes his mouth and tries to think of a clever answer. This becomes increasingly more difficult, as Aziraphale’s hand is back in Crowley’s neck, his fingers softly passing through his wavy hair.

“Did you like that, angel?” Crowley asks smirking. Judging by Aziraphale’s fond smile, he does. He lifts one hand up to cup Aziraphale’s face and get him even closer.

“What’s in it for me,  _ angel _ ?”

Aziraphale hums, as if he’s considering it. Crowley grins in return.

“I think we can figure that out as we go,” Aziraphale suggests. If Crowley had anything to debate there, it gets lost on the way. In the next moment Aziraphale finally closes the tiny gap between them. 

The kiss is sweet, almost innocent, if they weren’t in this position, already pressed up against one another. Crowley can taste the tomato and garlic on Aziraphale’s lips and grins into the kiss. When they part, Crowley’s hand wanders from Aziraphale’s face down his arm and finds the other’s hand.

Crowley tilts his head and watches Aziraphale. 

“Well done, I lost my train of thought,” he complains. 

“That’s not my fault.” Aziraphale’s smile is way too innocent. Crowley grumbles.

He tugs at Aziraphale’s hand and tentatively meets his gaze. He grins and uses his other hand to pull him closer again, covering his soft lips with his with a row of pecks. After the third one, Aziraphale grins so sweetly that Crowley needs to stop. 

“Best dessert,” Crowley says. Aziraphale laughs and shrugs.

“I’m a fan of desserts,” Aziraphale smiles. Suddenly, his eyes light up. “Desserts! Oh dear, I still have ice cream!”

Crowley chuckles and let’s Aziraphale’s hand go so he can get the ice cream from his freezer. They share the chocolate ice cream and talk. At some point, they go back to the living room and continue a light-hearted conversation over another glass of wine.

Before they know it, they pass midnight and around 1 am Crowley becomes sleepy. He is sprawled out on Aziraphale’s couch, his head on the armrest, his feet once again in Aziraphale’s lap. Every now and then Aziraphale shifts, Crowley lifts his legs to let him find a comfortable position, rises up and kisses him, then lies back down. 

“Oh, blimey, where has the time gone?” Aziraphale, in an attempt to get rid of his watch, made the mistake to actually look at it. 1.38 am. 

“I guess that’s my cue,” Crowley groans and rises in slow motion. He stretches, his back answers with an alarming crack. 

“Your- well, how are you feeling?” Aziraphale asks Crowley and eyes him with sincere concern. He can’t come up with a witty reply, not when he’s confronted with that kind of look.

“Not too bad,” it’s true. The relaxed rest of the evening helped his anxiety.

“You can sleep here, if you want to. If you don’t want to be alone.”

Crowley’s heart does a metaphorical salto. He sits up straight, yawns, shakes his head.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. And you need to get up earlier than I do, I assume. And-”, he pats Aziraphale’s hand soothingly, “I’m only next door. If I- uhm. If something were to happen, I could come over.” The only thing that might happen would be a panic attack, but Crowley thinks of it as unlikely. The time spent with Aziraphale helped him calm down, additionally the shared kisses made him giddy and feel nothing but lovestruck.

“Okay, I trust your judgement.”

Crowley stiffles a snort - he wouldn’t trust his judgement. Aziraphale sees him to the door. They pause in the door frame, Crowley’s foot hovers over the threshold for a second. He sways back in again, only to be confronted with Aziraphale’s face, who seemed to have a similar idea. They nearly crash into one another and the goodbye kiss is more of an amused clash of lips, teeth and laughter.

“How elegant,” Aziraphale comments when he draws back. Crowley shakes his head, he feels the heat of his face. 

“I know,” Crowley winks at him. Although Aziraphale can hardly make out his eyes, the facial expression is obvious. He rolls his eyes fondly. When Crowley finally passes the threshold and gets out the key for his flat, Aziraphale stops him.

“I might be a bit out of date with this, but Crowley, I don’t go around kissing just anybody.” Crowley nods, a sweet grin makes its way onto his face. Aziraphale struggles with his next words and Crowley - just a bit of a sadist at times - lets him.

“So, uh. Yes. You wouldn’t be interested in a relationship, would you?” Aziraphale asks, and although he rambled at first, Crowley is sure he is only playing coy. 

“We both know you’re not shyly asking, because you’re afraid of being…’vintage’, here,” Crowley grins. By now he knows some of the mannerisms and speech patterns Aziraphale has and although the man is insanely correct, polite and friendly, he can also be quite calculating.

“You, Mister, may be a bit possessive. Which is perfectly fine, I like men who know what they want.”

“Crowley, would you please just answer the question?” Aziraphale sounds amused, more than anything. So, Crowley happily complies.

“I am very interested in relationships. Why are you asking?”

Aziraphale sighs and pretends to close the door in Crowley’s face. Quickly, Crowley’s foot sneaks into the door and stops it. He forgot that he’s only wearing socks.

“Ouch.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, my dear, but there’s only you to blame!” Aziraphale pulls the door open again, cheeks tinted pink. 

“Pffff, thanks for the apology. Very considerate of you, Zira,” Crowley grumbles and rubs his foot. Once he’s standing up again, he leans towards Aziraphale.

“Do you want to be in a relationship with me, or not? I'm not talking about diving into something super fast. I'd like to think of it as...an evolving, exclusive dating?” Aziraphale asks and the smug grin gives away his confidence. Crowley hates it. He could kiss him.

“Fine, yes! Are you happy now?” This sounds dreamlike, Crowley should have answered more smitten. Dating each other exclusively is a relationship - technically - right? Good.

“Very. Sleep well, my dear,” Aziraphale smiles. Crowley rolls his eyes for good measure, blows him a kiss (entirely ironic of course) and pads over to his flat. 

Despite the awful phone call, Crowley sleeps like a log and only wakes up when his alarm goes off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any opinions? 👀 Any feelings? 👀 Anything at all?? TELL ME :D


	12. A busy day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> Thanks for the lovely comments on the last chapter, you are incredible!!
> 
> This one's beta'd by <@flootzavut> thank you so much!
> 
> Hope you like this one, it's really more an interlude!

Crowley rises with the first ringing of his alarm. Maybe Aziraphale’s well wishes really worked, he feels fairly well rested and only a little angry at his mother. And the company. And his involvement yet again. Okay, now that he is awake he might be a bit angrier.

It’s Friday, which means he doesn’t need to be at the flower shop. Or so he said to Anathema. If he’s honest with himself, some distraction is needed. But alas, he better get it over with. With a self-pitying sigh he gets out of bed, starts lazily in the day and texts Aziraphale while he’s munching on some muesli.

He already received a message when he was still asleep. It makes him smile when he opens it.

_ Good morning, my dear! I hope you slept well and have a lovely day! If you’re in any way free today, I’d like to spend some quality time with you. See you soon, your Zira _

Too good for this world. Crowley shakes his head at the sweet morning texts. His answer is short, but he thinks he’s doing fine.

_ Morning, angel. Slept alright, thank you. I’m busy during the day, but evening should be free! xx _

Yes.  _ Yes _ , he sent kisses. Because why not, he is a free man in a free country.

“No, I’m not,” he tells himself and turns on his computer to have a first look at his mother’s mail. As he expected, it’s nothing too serious. Yet, he needs some time to get back into it, read up on how business is going at the moment, check the market. This will take some time.

He makes a cup of tea, puts on some music and gets to work.

Time flies, Crowley writes, calculates, curses. He rings up Hastur to get more information. The call is dreadful, boring, exhausting, but helpful. When Crowley hangs up he feels like he needs a shower. He can’t put his finger on it, but something about Hastur is deeply unsettling. Back then, working with him was alright, especially if Ligur joined them. Talking to Hastur again after more than two years radio silence creeps him out.

Time for another cup of tea, maybe some pizza. By the time the pizza arrives, Crowley is buried in paper and notepads, decorated with highlighter marks on his fingertips and odds and risks on his mind. 

He pays for his lunch and forces himself to take a break. After he’s finished half of the pizza, he takes care of his plants. The Senecio Angel Wings does great in her new spot closer to the light. Crowley mutters to his plants about the stupid work, his wretched mother and on a happier note he talks about last night with Aziraphale. 

When he settles into his living room again - in the centre of the paper chaos, computer barely within arm’s reach - his phone rings. He sighs and lets his body go limp. Lying on the floor, he blindly stretches one arm out and fumbles for his phone. It has to be here, somewhere, maybe - “Hah!”

Still lying on the floor, his hair spread out around him, he unlocks the device when he sees the caller ID.

“Aziraphale!”

_ “Hello, Crowley! How is it going?” _

“Errr-” Crowley glances at the mess around him, “-could be worse. How’s your day?”

_ “Quite busy, many customers today. But I’m on lunch break now, so I thought I’d call. But, please don’t let me disturb you!” _

Crowley chuckles. “You’re not disturbing me. I just want to get this work done as quickly as possible. It’s coming along, probably need to do some more tomorrow, but. Well, it’ll be done.”

There’s silence for a moment. When Aziraphale speaks again, his voice is softer than before.

_ “I’m sure you can do it. Let’s take your mind off of it tonight, yes? I was thinking we could do something fun, maybe go to the cinema or mini golf or something like that?” _

Mini Golf. Crowley laughs, but it’s a happy, relieved laugh, his mouth is hurting from sheer happiness. Aziraphale hums grumpily.

“Sorry! I’d really like that. I prefer tv shows, but if there’s anything on you’d like to see, I’d join you. Otherwise, mini golf sounds very entertaining.”

_ “Tz, tz. Alright, my dear. When I’m done here, I’ll come over to you and we can decide together.” _

“Fair enough. And, Zira-,” Crowley stops, works his mouth, tries to put it in the right words, “-thank you. I’m really looking forward to tonight.”

_ “Any time, my dear. See you soon!” _

“See you,” Crowley replies and grins to himself. Now that he has something concrete to look forward to, time flashes by. He finishes his pizza while scribbling more notes, googling, writing one or two more mails. 

When it’s after 5, he decides to stop for the day. He doesn’t know when Aziraphale closes the shop and he wants to be decent by then. His hair is a mess, he feels sweaty and in need of a change of clothes. 

6.14 pm his doorbell rings.

“Coming!” Crowley fights against a knot in his hair with his comb. He shouldn’t have showered, he didn't  _ need _ to shower. Why did he wash his hair and rub it so vigorously?!

He opens the door, comb in hand, glasses barely clinging to his face. Aziraphale smiles brightly at him, but the smile turns into a concerned frown seconds later.

“Oh my, what are you doing?”

“Playing piano. What does it look like?” Crowley sighs and waves him in.

“Goodness, let me help you,” Aziraphale says and has Crowley sit in the kitchen. He sneers at the tangled hair and unflinchingly separates strand by strand and frees the comb. Crowley on the other hand, flinches with every knot violently ripped. 

“H- hey! Ouch-,” he complains and clasps his hands as to not strangle Aziraphale.

“I am sorry, my dear. Almost there….there you go,” Aziraphale sounds so proud and happy, it makes Crowley nearly forget the pain. He rolls his eyes, scratches his scalp and rises.

He faces Aziraphale and leans down the bit to meet Aziraphale’s lips. 

“Was this your ‘thank you’?” Aziraphale sounds amused, although he critically raises his eyebrows. Crowley grins as innocently as he can manage, and he kisses him again.

“Maybe. Ready to go?”

“Ready to go where, my dear?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Golfing, obviously. Unless you found a movie you’d rate at least 8/10.”

Aziraphale scoffs at the options and Crowley nods. No good movies and the ones that might be decent probably still can’t hold Crowley’s attention for long enough. 

“See, so mini golf it is.” Crowley smirks. The absurd sport, hobby, whatever it counts as, has many advantages. Crowley can think of so many - there’ll be the opportunity to compete against one another, which will be great fun. They have way more time than at some stupid movie. They can talk, laugh, tease each other as they please. Crowley can admire his - boyfriend? partner? date? in peace and more light than a flickering movie in a dark theatre offers. 

“As you wish. Shall we call a cab?” Aziraphale is already back at the door.

Crowley tuts and an excited smile spreads across his face. He likes walks and sometimes cab rides to their chosen lunch or dinner destination. But today they could do something different.

“No, angel. Today, I’m driving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo....any thoughts??


	13. The Bentley and a golf club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date that's not (just) food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, thanks for joining me again :D
> 
> This one's beta'd, yeay!
> 
> Hope you like it, have fun!

“I’ve never been in here,” Aziraphale says as they enter the car park. It’s well hidden and only contains four cars. With the building being in the city centre and many public means of transport available, not everyone owns a car. 

Crowley wouldn’t need one either. However, nearly ten years ago he came across a magnificent car he just had to buy. Because it is such an old car, it’s not the most eco-friendly one. From time to time Crowley uses it to get out of town, just to appreciate it.

“Well, why would you. This is-,” he stops to think how to properly introduce the imposing car. “-errr, this is her. She’s a Bentley and you can be the first fellow passenger ever.”

“Oh, really? I am honoured, she looks incredible.” Aziraphale naturally adopts the pronoun Crowley uses for his car. Once they have marveled appropriately at the car’s look - Aziraphale did an amazing job at pointing out what he likes and Crowley did an amazing job at looking like a proud father - they get in and set out for the “Swingers”. They didn’t talk about where exactly they want to go, but Crowley assumes most outdoor courses are closed by now and “Swingers - The Crazy Golf Club” was always open until at least midnight.

_ Caviar and cigarettes / Well versed in etiquette / Extraordinarily nice _

_ She's a Killer Queen / Gunpowder, gelatine /Dynamite with a laser beam- _

Crowley stops the music as they roll from the driveway onto the street. 

“You can have a look at the CD’s, if you want any music,” he tells Aziraphale, then rapidly steers the Bentley to the left. Aziraphale, unprepared for such abrupt movement, gets squished against the window. 

“...okay,” he says skeptically while adjusting himself. Crowley knows he’s living on the fast lane - literally. He speeds through the rush-hour traffic, nearly taking a young man on a bicycle with them on the Bentley’s hood.

“Oh, good gracious! Crowley, don’t you think we have enough time to slow down to...well. To the speed limit?”

“Aww, you’re no fun. Look, we’re doing just fine!” Crowley grins at him, one hand on the steering wheel, the other shoves a couple of CD’s into Aziraphale’s lap.

“Be a sweetheart and pick out some music, yeah? I like to listen to music when I drive.”

Aziraphale shoots him a very pointed look - Crowley chooses to take it as a compliment. Even with this rate the ride would take some time. They could just as well listen to some music and talk for a bit.

Crowley keeps one eye on the traffic and one on Aziraphale, who examines Crowley’s music options. After five minutes, no words and two dark orange lights, Crowley sighs amused.

“You know, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to choose one, we could just talk.”

“It’s not that! I don’t know most of the artists, I was trying to judge them based on song titles and album covers,” Aziraphale defends himself. Crowley grins at the flustered man and takes the CD’s back. By now Aziraphale is probably close to having a heart attack, with Crowley taking his eyes off the road all the time, doing various things with his hands and talking all the while. 

“Don’t worry. Have you golfed before? Mini or otherwise?”

“I have, but it’s been a while,” Aziraphale answers. Then, to Crowley’s surprise, he turns the radio back on. Far quieter, Queen’s last lines of ‘Killer Queen’ sounds.

Crowley hums along and every now and then they chat. Every other now and then Aziraphale looks like he might be sick, yell at Crowley or simply die. 

“Relax, angel, I won’t kill us in a car crash,” Crowley says. They pass a zebra crossing without a second glance - well, several wide-eyed glances from Aziraphale, no glance whatsoever from Crowley - and ignore a woman shouting after them.

“Maybe not us, but possibly the next pedestrian,” Aziraphale mutters.

When they arrive at the golf club and bar, Aziraphale gets out, feeling rather weak in the knees and not just because of Crowley’s charming nature. 

“Oh come on, it wasn’t too bad!” Crowley looks at him incredulously. He’s not sure how much of it translates through his dark glasses, but at Aziraphale’s disapproving expression he grins. He locks the car, walks around it to Aziraphale and raises one eyebrow. He is proud of this skill, but no one needs to know that.

“You weren’t in any danger. And I actually notice my surroundings, no people were hurt, were they?”

“Not this time, luckily,” Aziraphale grants him. Crowley grins and leans down - he’s relieved when Aziraphale tilts his head and meets him for a kiss. 

“Well, let’s go!”

They enter the huge place, with causally linked arms and all bright smiles. The “Swingers” is a big place right in London’s centre and is as busy as one can imagine on a friday evening. They enter and Aziraphale swoons at the lights and decorations. Although the club is huge, it has a cozy feeling to it, neon lights accompany dimmed lamps on various tables. Crowley hasn’t been here before, but “Swingers” exists in the West End and (a couple years ago) seemed alright.

Once inside, they get something to drink from one of the various bars and have a look at the two courses. Aziraphale walks close up to the description board and absently sips on his Kiss Of The Devil. When he keeps quiet, Crowley comes closer to him and asks:

“Can’t decide?”

“No, I mean, we could do both. But which is the better start?”

“Oh, don’t make it so complicated,” Crowley replies and blindly puts his finger on one of the course names. They read it.

“Huh, the  _ Windmill Course  _ it is, then?” Aziraphale seems happy enough with the decision and they get their clubs, golf balls and vague instructions on how to behave there.

“ _ ‘Don’t climb into the figures’  _ well obviously, I’m not gonna get stuck in a fucking windmill,” Crowley scoffs. 

“I don’t think she thought you would,” Aziraphale assures him with an amused smile. “I think it’s the usual instructions they have to give everybody.”

Crowley huffs and drags his club behind him. They make their way to the course, set the empty cocktail glasses aside, and have a look at the course. Most prominent is of course the windmill, which is illuminated by fairy lights. Other, smaller obstacles line the fairway, but as it is mini golf, they shouldn’t be too hard. At least, Crowley hopes so.

“So, what’s in it for the winner?” He grins at Aziraphale and juggles three of the golf balls.

“What do you mean? We’re here for fun, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but winning is fun, isn’t it?” 

“Hm, maybe. It is just a game, though. I guess the loser can treat the winner to something fancy in the restaurant in here?” Aziraphale noticed the sign for the terrace restaurant above them early on. 

“Good enough, get ready to pay angel,” Crowley answers and saunters to the tee. Aziraphale tuts and follows him. Although Crowley doesn’t see it, he can practically hear the smile on Aziraphale’s face.

They’ve shot their way closer and closer towards the windmill quite equally. While Aziraphale mainly missed the cups, because of too little force behind his hits, Crowley’s golf balls tumbled around and over every other cup, because of too much force. They bickered and teased their way up until now. Although it is ‘just a game’, Aziraphale neatly takes notes on their scores. Crowley fondly watches him and thinks back to the letter which still decorates his kitchen. Aziraphale counts and proclaims Crowley’s minimal advance for now.

“Ohhh, angel, are you ready for the final victory?”

“Of course, my dear. I’m happy to be treated to a lovely dinner,” Aziraphale replies, innocently smiling at him. Crowley only grins. His first shot is a huge miss. He grimaces and gestures for Aziraphale to try. Another miss. 

Crowley pulls him close, before he walks over to the traitorous ball. He kisses Aziraphale, his free hand softly stroking through the white-blonde hair.

“Wish me luck.” He smirks and takes the next stroke. Aziraphale laughs, when the ball hits the windmill and fires back.

“This is your fault,” Crowley accuses him, but the bright smile betrays him. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows and pouts. His next shot is just as bad, only that his golf ball rolls back to his starting point. Crowley stifles a chuckle.

Now, this is all nice and fun. Or, it would be, but by now they’ve tried to pass the windmill and get to the final flag for almost 45 minutes.

“For fuck’s sake, this is literal tilting at windmills,” Crowley curses. His hands are sweaty and his hair won’t stay in its impromptu ponytail. They have paused for ten minutes by now to let three other people pass - they’ve managed the windmill in pars. One in a bogey.

Aziraphale refrains from tutting this time and only sighs in defeated agreement. Then, a determined expression takes over his face.

“Well, we can’t give up. These three people just did it, so we can do it too.” He grabs his club and tries again. The ball rolls up towards the windmill, hits a small fence and drastically changes its course. When Crowley gets up from the spot he’s chosen to die on, he pats Aziraphale on the shoulder, faking sympathy.

“Next time, sweetheart.” Hm. The endearment may make it sound less fake and more compassionate. Anyways. Crowley takes a deep breath. By now he’s feeling a bit hungry and certainly fed up with this stupid windmill. He grinds his teeth, sways a bit from side to side, closes one eye and hits the unassuming ball. It rolls. It rolls up towards the windmill, slightly off path. It scratches the entry and - rolls through the small passage in the windmill.

“Ah! Oh my, yes!” Crowley cheers. Aziraphale gapes at him, then frowns at his golf ball. 

“How did you do that?”

“I don’t kn- errr. Skills. Skills, angel!” Crowley skips over to him and presses a kiss to his cheek. Then another one on his other cheek and a final one onto his lips. Despite his suspicion and slight envy, Aziraphale kisses him back and grins.

“What else,” he mutters and tries again. Miss.

Crowley skids around the windmill - Aziraphale steps aside to see his next shot. 

“No way,” he proclaims. Crowley is awfully silent, then spins around with a grin that seems to take over his whole face.

“Take that, Quixano!” Crowley flies back to Aziraphale and hugs him. 

“You know what that means?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“Yes, tell me how you did it or it doesn’t count.”

“Excuse me?” Crowley stares at Aziraphale.

“You can’t just win now, dear. This is - this is unacceptable. Look at that.” He points at the golf ball next to his feet, still waiting to pass through the windmill. The pout is back and Crowley is reminded of a kicked puppy. He can’t stand it.

“Oh, come on, don’t be upset about it.”

“I am not upset. It’s just a game,” Aziraphale fusses, obviously more affected than he wants to show. Crowley thinks it’s adorable. He takes Aziraphale’s hands, the golf club falling onto the grass.

“Come here, angel. It’s okay to lose,” he says, but can’t stop himself from smirking. Aziraphale looks at him. Then he tilts his head.

“Did you cheat?” He asks slowly. Crowley stares at him.

“No? How am I supposed to cheat at golf?”

“I don’t know, but I couldn’t exactly see your last shot,” Aziraphale argues and puts his hands on his hips. 

“Are you serious? Why the hell would I cheat? Just to win?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer and Crowley groans. He cannot believe he has to prove his innocence - especially when he really has no option to do so. He considers distracting Aziraphale with another kiss. Or just admit to something he hasn’t done.

He prostrates before Aziraphale. Takes his hands and touches them with his lips.

“Aziraphale Fell, I promise you, I did not cheat. I swear by...by my dad’s grave.”

By now Aziraphale’s cheeks and ears are coloured pink and an expression forms, so tender that it’s hard for Crowley to look at him.

“Oh dear, please get up,” Aziraphale chides, sounding more touched than anything.

Crowley gets up with a grin and is immediately pulled into a passionate kiss. He sighs into it and wraps his angel into his arms.

When their lips part, they stay entangled for a moment longer.

Aziraphale takes Crowley to the restaurant and pays for a huge three-course-menu. Crowley sips at his wine and finishes the last of the Tiramisu.

“If I knew I just had to get on my knees for this kind of fiery attention, I’d’ve done it earlier.” 

Aziraphale chokes on his brownie. 

On their way back home, Queen’s “Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy” accompanies their conversation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ADFHKl I HOPE YOU LIKED IT. DID YOU LIKE IT?? 👀


	14. Croissants, work and a familiar face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh hello, welcome back, welcome back! How are you?
> 
> This one's beta'd!! And really more of an interlude again, but I think it's a cute one.   
> Hope you like it :D

They have brunch the following day, as it’s Saturday and they only got home at about 2 am after their golf date.

Crowley’s hair is a mess and Aziraphale is still wearing his cotton pyjamas. The curtains in front of Aziraphale’s kitchen window are drawn close, only a small table lamp illuminates the kitchen, making it all the more cosy. Crowley’s sunglasses lie abandoned on the table.

They eat croissants, baguettes and fruits. Aziraphale puts on some classical music, which they hum along to when they aren’t talking.

“When do you open your shop today?” Crowley collects small crumbs from his clothes and lets them flutter on his plate like snowflakes. The morning is so peaceful and he doesn’t want it to end. But he’s not afraid of its end either, because being with Aziraphale feels like - feels like home. He knows they’ll come together soon enough.

Aziraphale finishes the last bits of camembert and pops the final grape in his mouth.   
“Good question, in an hour?” He glances at the clock. “Or in half an hour, I think we’ve forgotten the time, my dear.”

Crowley nods, a soft smile forming on his lips. He stretches and a satisfying crack of his spine tells him he’s becoming more and more awake. That’s what he needs to be, after all he still has to finish the work for his mother. Aziraphale notices his frown before Crowley even realises his mood shift.

“Is everything alright?” A light touch to his hand gets Crowley out of his head.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Half an hour is good, I need to wrap up my work as well,” he says. Aziraphale’s face replicates Crowley’s frown. The light touch becomes a hand wrapped safely around his.

“Do that, but if you feel overwhelmed or just need a break, you can come to the bookshop. Or call me, I’ll be there for you.”

“Thank you, angel.” Crowley leans over and kisses his literal angel. How had he lived without him? He’s falling so fast, and hard at that. He knows he should be careful with his feelings, with creating dependence. But Aziraphale is the kindest person Crowley has ever met. It’s hard to  _ not  _ immediately fall for him.

During the next half hour Aziraphale gets dressed and ready while Crowley takes care of the dishes. Well, he might have needed to go check some things like: “Zira, where do the cups go?” when Aziraphale took off his pajamas - the answer was a gasp and a door closed in his face, or: “Hey, angel, can I use the towel for glasses and plates alike?” when Aziraphale buttons up his pants - this time the answer is a disapproving glare, but by then he definitely caught up on what Crowley was doing. The next question: “Angel? Where is-” Crowley cannot finish, because he’s busy being kissed by an annoyed and maybe a bit flattered Aziraphale. The question and dish towel slip from Crowley.

Back at his flat, Crowley lets himself fall on the big sofa. He presses his hands to his face, carefully avoiding the sunglasses that once again take residence on his nose.

“Azrpfl,” he sighs and feels a laugh bubbling up. Is it possible to feel second-hand embarrassment for yourself? Because Crowley feels like he is watching himself, an idiot giggling alone in his flat, observed from above. 

“Let me be happy for once,” he tells his consciousness. Generously, he lets the last night replay in his mind before he has to take on less fun matters. 

The date went quite perfect, didn’t it? Golf, food, many kisses and displays of public affection. Crowley knows he has a thing for romantic shit. Not because he’s cheesy (he thinks), but more because of the nonexistent role romance had in his life. Romance isn’t just about giving corny gifts or sending sappy texts, for Crowley, romantic means affectionate, appreciative, tender and caring. 

Although he hasn’t experienced romance in his family as a child, he’s learned to love it. The importance of kindness, the will to live and to live  _ a good  _ life. Stay positive. Stay strong.

Then they’d gone home. Well, to Aziraphale’s place. They had a few glasses of wine each, some more kisses. Lazy cuddling. At some point Crowley remembers Aziraphale waking him up, placing a kiss on his forehead. “You can sleep here, if you like. We can have breakfast together,” he had said. Crowley, half asleep already, had nodded and drifted off again, snugged into the sofa.

The morning had been perfect, too. Is he overusing the word ‘perfect’? But it had been very lovely, when he rose, Aziraphale just padded out of his bedroom. They’d made breakfast together and here he is now. Grinning like a fool, he sees his reflection on the black tv screen. “Right, let’s get it over with,” he tells himself and gets up. Enough reminiscing. 

It takes him the time to make a cup of tea for him to get settled into work mode. 

Three hours later, he is back on his couch, phone in hand. His thumb hovers over the contact app. He doesn’t  _ need  _ to call Aziraphale, he’s not ‘overwhelmed’ or anything. On the other hand, he definitely needs to call Aziraphale, because he misses him.

Crowley groans and gets up again. In his bathroom, he drops a pile of clothes and gets ready. He needs to look at least 11/10 to set a foot outside and to look in the mirror. Finished, he pockets the essentials - keys, phone, emergency hair tie and wallet.

It’s a rather dark afternoon, London’s sky is patterned with grey clouds and  brusque gusts of wind tousle Crowley’s hair. He sways, pushing a courageous strand behind his ear and trying not to get stuck in the occasional pavement grids with his heels.

When he enters the book shop, a few heads turn to him. A handful of visitors look around, one woman is at the checkout with Aziraphale. Crowley walks over to them.

“...so that’s why I think you’ll really enjoy this one.” Aziraphale hands her a paper bag as Crowley sneaks up to him. He looks at the woman and grins.

“Anathema! What are you doing here?”

“Hi, nice to see you here” Anathema greets him. She looks back at Aziraphale when she’s got the bag and wants to bid her goodbye. Crowley can practically see the puzzle pieces connect in her head.

“Wait a minute.” She raises her eyebrows, then stabs Crowley’s chest with an immaculate blue fingernail. “Are you kidding me? Your beloved is Mr Fell?”

Crowley snorts. Aziraphale looks from one to the other, aware that he’s missing something crucial here. As this lady, Anathema, is just a customer, he interrogates Crowley.

“She knows me? Us? Oh blimey, I know the name-,” he stops to think, then turns back to Anathema. “You’re the flower shop owner, right? Crowley’s talked about you before!”

Anathema confirms it and lightly jabs at Crowley again.

“I hope you two got it together, he was swooning over you.” Crowley would like to politely kick her out, for the comment, but more so for the shiteating grin on her face. Instead, he takes his best casual to-cool-for-you pose.

“Pff, of course we did. I did. We.” He should stop talking. Aziraphale stifles a chuckle and extends his hand to Anathema.

“Pleased to meet you, you can call me...Aziraphale.” Crowley notices the pause, but he’s incredibly proud of his angel. When they met he didn’t even want to tell him his real first name, now he readily offers it to Anathema. He could kiss him. Actually he can, so he does.

“Awww, you two are adorable. Well, it was lovely to finally meet you Aziraphale, I gotta go now. Have a nice weekend - Crowley I see you next week?”

“‘Course. Say Newton I said hi,” he replies and they give a quick goodbye-wave when Anathema leaves the shop.

“Well, she was quite lovely,” Aziraphale concludes.

“You’re quite lovely.”

“Oh, stop it,” Aziraphale says, but the soft expression betrays him. Crowley raises his hands and walks around him into the back of the shop.

“I’ll stop. We can go for an early dinner in a bit?”

“Dinner sounds great, but I can’t close just now. If you want, you can stay until I close,” Aziraphale offers. Crowley, already seated in a huge armchair, slumps down further and throws his legs over one arm.

“Perfect, I’ll take a nap,” he replies and contrary to his announcement picks up the nearest book. It’s nothing less than ‘Don Quijote’. Crowley shakes his head in silent amusement and starts reading. Soon enough, the book sits closed on his chest while Crowley slips into a light sleep. Occasionally, Aziraphale checks on him in between serving customers and reorganising the little stand with bookmarks. Crowley twitches as a tender kiss is pressed onto his temple, but doesn’t wake up.

Later, they eat French (to Aziraphale’s delight and Crowley’s scepticism), stroll through the closest park and spend a very lazy, fairly romantic evening. The late night ends with them huddled up on Crowley’s sofa, the closing credits of Disney’s ‘Moana’ still playing, both of them fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any opinions?? 👀


	15. Another movie night, another flower crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell, I'm running out of chapter titles lmao.
> 
> Welcome back! This one is not beta'd, just finished and it is 10.41pm, I apologize.  
> If you notice any major fuck-ups, please tell me! 
> 
> Otherwise, hope you enjoy it!

The days flew by in such a haze that Crowley might as well have worn rose-coloured glasses of sunshine-butterfly-love. He would actually, if he didn’t need those dark shades. 

It’s the end of their first ‘exclusive’ week. Crowley is ecstatic and whistles ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ while he takes care of the “Witches Corner’s” plants. Almost every day they either dined, had lunch or breakfast together. Some days multiple meals or other activities in between. They found out that they both share a fondness for walking through and just sitting in London’s parks. Yesterday, Aziraphale brought some chopped up grapes along which mostly ended as duck food instead of snacks for them.

Crowley has stayed another night on Aziraphale’s couch, the other days they slept at their respective places. Today, they want to meet at Crowley’s. He has spent the morning cleaning the kitchen and vacuuming the living room. Now he needs to get rid off his nervous energy - his whistle becomes an energetic humming.

“Wow, you’re really going for it today, aren’t you?” Anathema grins at him as she enters the room to pick up some flowers that get to move to the front and be on full display. Crowley hands her one of the pots and raises his eyebrows.

“Am I? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he answers and turns back to the geraniums he is taking care of, and maybe he’s hiding a smirk.

“Don’t play this game with me, Mister, or I’ll have to get Newt.”

“Hck,” Crowley replies. Anathema’s laugh makes him turn and roll his eyes at her. She knows exactly that Newton would drive Crowley crazy with his infatuation and stuttering. So eager to please, yet so easily annoying - that guy. Crowley begins to see why Anathema likes him, but hell, he still can’t be around him longer than five minutes.

“I might be. Zira’s coming over today, he hasn’t really been though, we’re either outside or at his place.”

“Aww you’re nervous? I’m sure you don’t need to be, I mean what’re you afraid of?”

Crowley sighs. She is right, theoretically there is nothing to be afraid of. Except for everything. Crowley fiddles with the rings he’s wearing today. Soil crumbles from them.

“Nothing, really. He’s been in my kitchen and partly in my living room, but only for a few minutes at most. What if he sees my...my design and decides that’s not what he expects and he doesn’t wanna be with someone who lives like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like- like. A personified oxymoron!” Anathema giggles. Crowley frowns at her, not willing to join her delight. He crosses his arms and stares at her until she stops.

“Sweetie, you’re a complex person and that’s absolutely fine. No one is completely harmonic, hundred percent one thing or another, so your flat maybe reflects that too. It just means you’re human. And a bit of a moron, but that’s alright because it makes you adorable.”

“Did you just take the oxymoron from me to call me a moron? I hate you.”

She pats his arm and leaves with the flowers. Crowley wants to be mad at her, but she lifted his mood immensely and soothed at least some of his worries. And he is  _ not  _ adorable, how dare she call him that. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window in front of him.

He’s threaded a flowery hair band into his bun and wears a matching floral printed shirt. Okay, his look might be a bit more dainty and sweet today, so what. Some days he feels like that positive, sweet person - he does not need to justify himself. Why does he feel like he needs to? He doesn’t, Aziraphale has told him so this morning. Well, texted him.

Crowley may have sent him a good-morning-text with a selfie attached and had immediately regretted it. Aziraphale knew what he looked like after all, this was a stupid idea, so stupid- until Aziraphale had replied. Crowley takes his phone out and rereads the message.

_ Good morning to you too! Oh my, dear you look gorgeous. I did not know you owned light coloured clothes! You are beautiful, I can’t wait to see you tonight. _

Crowley presses his lips together hard as to not break into a delighted chuckle. This could attract Anathema and he cannot have her smug attitude right now. He puts his phone back into his pocket and shakes the few remaining doubts off. No, his flat is a part of himself, he likes it and Aziraphale likes him. They should be fine.

He spends the rest of the day tending to the plants, he creates a bouquet and even has a five minute chat with Newton about - he’s not sure. The man rambles a lot. When he leaves, Anathema wishes him a “wonderful and cosy evening with his cutie”, which earns her a glare and disapproving puff. Judging by her grin, she counts it as a victory.

At home, he prepares their dinner - fried rice with some vegetables and ground meat, because he neither has the time nor the nerves to cook something challenging. On his way home he bought some fruits covered in chocolate as dessert. 

7pm sharp, his doorbell chimes. Crowley turns off the stove and goes to open the door. Aziraphale beams at him with an angelic smile and a cream-white shirt, the mint-coloured bow tie the only dash of colour on his otherwise white look. Crowley feels positively blinded.

“Good evening, beautiful,” Aziraphale greets him and walks in. Crowley stares, as he so often does. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, then closes the door and tries again.

“Hi, you don’t look too bad yourself.” Aziraphale blushes and neatly takes off his shoes and sets them next to Crowley’s dozens of pairs. 

“Come here,” Crowley says and pulls him into a kiss that could have been a sweet greeting, but turns into a longer, more passionate version of itself. Aziraphale presses back, hands sneaking into Crowley’s hair. 

“Uh, dinner?” They leave the corridor, fetch the food and settle in the two chairs next to one another. Aziraphale compliments the dish, Crowley deflects the compliment and talks about his day at the flower shop. Aziraphale shares his day which includes a boy buying eight books at once and a woman who tried to bring her cat in. Aziraphale had relented, obviously, and petted the small things fluffy fur. The woman bought two books so he felt affirmed in his decision. He also compliments Crowley’s kitchen (thank God).

“You said you’d choose a movie, dear?” Aziraphale asks when Crowley puts the dirty dishes away. Crowley offers him a nervous grin, nods and closes the shiny dishwasher.

“I did. Uh, if you don’t like it we can get something else, though,” he replies.

“Nonsense, tell me. What did you pick?”

“I- errr. I thought we could watch ‘Mulan’? You know, the Disney...yeah, errr,” he trails off. Aziraphale claps in excitement.

“Oh, I love this one! I have only seen it once years ago, I think?” Crowley exhales relieved. After they’ve half-watched ‘Moana’ he was unsure whether another children’s movie was a good or a bad idea. Truth be told, he likes those movies. They are the only ones that get his attention, as opposed to action movies or thrillers. TV shows are fine too, but for a relaxed evening he thinks a movie is nicer. Luckily, Aziraphale agrees.

“Great. Okay, I got some chocolate covered strawberries, grapes and banana pieces...do we want them now or should I get them later?”

“Chocolate covered fruits? Oh my goodness, I love-,” Aziraphale stops, his eyes widening for a second, “-them! How perfect, really my dear.”

Crowley looks at him amused and unconsciously licks his lips.

“I’m glad, I take that we’re gonna get them right away? I could have some,” he says. He collects the small tray with the fruits from his fridge and they head over to his living room. 

They eat, talk, watch the movie. Crowley mentions he’d love a Mushu to be his not-so-helpful-pet-dragon, Aziraphale prefers Mulan’s dog, Little Brother. They lean against one another while watching, fruits soon gone. Crowley rests on Aziraphale’s side and lets him caress his hair and arms. Every now and then Crowley stops his moving hands and presses soft kisses to them. 

“You know, Mulan is my favourite princess- if you consider her one of the princesses. She’s so strong. She doesn’t need anybody and she’s- she’s- she looks at her life and her ‘predestination’ and says fuck it and goes and saves China all by herself,” Crowley mutters at some point. Aziraphale’s hand stills as he listens.

“She is a very fascinating character, for sure. And determined, too,” Aziraphale agrees. He looks down at the man cuddled against him. He can imagine why Crowley loves this movie and this character in particular. 

“Right? Also, dressed up as a man joining the military? So badass,” Crowley concludes. The evening continues like this, they talk about the characters, the music, Crowley’s admiration for Mulan and Aziraphale’s desire for some good Asian cuisine. They do not talk about their related family issues, personal diverted family predestinations or other upsetting topics. Crowley is glad about it, tonight they share a sweet and light-hearted evening. There is no need to face issues that aren’t issues right now. 

After the movie ends Crowley gets out some wine. The earlier Disney-discussion becomes broader and ends with them taking buzzfeed quizzes on which princess they are, what their Disney plot would be and - as it was recommended right after the last quiz - what type of bread they are.

“I am not. I am not cornbread,” Aziraphale argues scandalized and maybe a bit more than tipsy. “I am either a waffle, or a biscuit. Maybe a type of bun, if I have to.”

“Agreed, be whatever you want to be, angel. Waffle, biscuit, bagel, babe.”

“Thank you! This quiz is stupid, also, you’re also not a pretzel? Why the hell would you be? Just because of your long-long legs? I don’t see it,” Aziraphale continues. Crowley, who was smiling lazily until then, frowns. He looks down at his outstretched legs and attempts the lotus position. He lands with his face pressed against the sofa cushions, but when he pushes himself back up his legs are successfully crossed.

“Hah, pretzel!” He scuttles around, keeping his legs crossed, to face Aziraphale who gasps.

“How extrord-extroar- wonderful! You know, that quiz might be right after all, at least about you.”

Crowley beams proudly at him. Then he tilts his head, hands outstretched for Aziraphale to come closer. “Kiss me, angel.” His angel happily complies.

“I don’t wanna get a hangover,” he mutters against the angels lips after their very lazy, somewhat sloppy makeout. Crowley detangles his legs and wraps them around Aziraphale instead. Aziraphale kisses him once more and rests one hand on Crowley’s thigh.

“Me neither, dear, but I think this might be unavoidable,” Aziraphale answers and shrugs. Crowley gets up and gets them two tall glasses of water.

“Might as well try, here you are, love.” Aziraphale gapes. Crowley raises an eyebrow, trying to figure out what made him stop functioning. Oh.  _ Oh. _

“Uh, you know, I mean-”

“No, no, I like it,” Aziraphale reassures him and takes the glass. Crowley smiles and carefully sits down next to him again. Their conversation tapers off as they sip their water and cuddle. 

“My sofa’s not the most comfortable for a whole night...you can stay with me though, you know...my bed’s big enough for both of us,” Crowley says eventually. He doesn’t dare to look at Aziraphale when he says it and certainly doesn’t afterwards. Aziraphale hums, which might be consideration, agreement, disagreement or a slurred sentence about his love for crepes.

“You’d have to lend me some kind of pajamas,” he says. 

“I- uh. Sure,” Crowley replies carefully neutral, but his face betrays him and shows Aziraphale a genuinely happy grin.

Half an hour later they find themselves snuggled up in Crowley’s king size bed. Because of their different height, size, overall shape Crowley just handed Aziraphale one of his comfortably big hang-out-at-home-hoodies. Aziraphale looks especially good in it (Crowley  _ does not _ think about the pastel underwear underneath the huge hoodie) - the dark blue sits stark against his pale skin and white-blonde hair. Crowley loves it and the minimally proprietary smirk tells Aziraphale too. Frankly, he doesn’t mind and rather enjoys the garment’s soft material and smell of its owner.

They mutter sweet good-nights and fall asleep as soon as they close their eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THOUGHTS??? 👀👀


	16. Morning after and croissants...and waffles...and cocoa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after their spontaneous sleep-over. Breakfast and a lazy sunday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy welcome back.  
> This one's a mess, not gonna lie. Not beta'd and not edited, I haven't even read it after I just finished typing it.  
> If anything is super horrible- yell at me, please, so I can go and fix it.
> 
> ANYWAYS, welcome to the 16th chapter! Y'all, your comments make me so fucking happy :D  
> I'm sorry this took so long, had some business on the weekend and some more the last days,  
> but here I am!
> 
> Hope you like it, next one will be more adventurous x

Crowley wakes up to utter darkness. That's not too unusual, he sleeps and wakes at the craziest hours. But this is real darkness, he can't make out silhouettes. He huffs and carefully lifts the arm that is draped across his face. There, better.

Aziraphale hums, frowns, and turns to the other side. He drags Crowley's wrist along and forces him to follow suit and cuddle up to him again. 

"Are you awake?" Crowley eyes him suspiciously, voice barely a whisper. Even breathes answer him. Crowley leans over and examines the case.

Fluffy hair, soft, pale skin, body wrapped in the too-big hoodie. And a content smile.

“You  _ are  _ awake, you little-”

“Little what, exactly?” Aziraphale blinks lazily at him. Crowley’s mouth dries.

“Sweet little angel,” Crowley settles on. He rests his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder and grins at the affronted huff.

“I’m not sure that this was your first thought, but I’ll let it pass.”

“You’re too kind.”

They get breakfast at a café down the street and Crowley doesn’t mention that Aziraphale - who went home to change into new clothes - does not return his hoodie. 

The shared breakfast menu for two makes Aziraphale go all heart eyes and Crowley grumbles into his coffee.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“Sure,” he replies and takes another sip, tongue already burned, eyes hidden behind his favourite pair of glasses. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows and points a croissant at him. Crowley bites the marmalade-covered part off.

“Sure?” Aziraphale saves the rest of his croissant by eating it.

“Yes, I wonder if you’ll ever look at me as you look at these damn waffles.”

“Oh, come on, Anthony,” Aziraphale tuts, but his eyes betray him. “Have you  _ tasted _ these waffles?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t- oh, excuse me,” Aziraphale says and takes the phone call. Crowley, distracted by the ringtone, forgives and forgets the waffle-argument. If he didn’t listen to classic music every now and then he’d just be confused, but thus he recognises Mussorgsky’s ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’ immediately. He wonders who in the angel’s contacts deserves such an unsettling ringtone- ah.

“Good morning, what can I do for you, brother?” Gabriel. Crowley frowns and tries to read Aziraphale’s expression, which is carefully neutral when he speaks, but turns into annoyance whenever he’s listening. Crowley eats a piece of cheese and some grapes, then gets his hand slapped as he reaches for Aziraphale’s waffles.

“No.” Crowley pouts. “No, not you, Gabriel. Well, actually, you too. I do not see why- yes...but- yeah. Alright. I’ll call you back...no. No! Bye.”

Crowley wants to ask what Gabriel wanted, but Aziraphale furiously attacks his waffle he protected so fiercely from Crowley. He lets him eat.

When the food is mostly gone and Aziraphale empties his cappuccino, Crowley leans back and pats his belly.

“I don’t eat so much for breakfast usually, but I can’t complain. This was very satisfying.”

“I agree, they make fantastic breakfast,” Aziraphale says. Crowley blinks. Aziraphale averts his gaze.

“Gabriel invited me to the next family dinner.”

“Oh?” Crowley leans forward, his head rests on his hand.

“Yes, but it’s never just a dinner. It’s a, a-,” Aziraphale gestures widely. “You know, a whole thing with tea first, later then the promised dinner, everyone stays overnight and we go eat breakfast at some fancy place to be ‘seen’ and then we may leave, but can stay for lunch.”

“Sounds like a big deal,” Crowley replies, trying to imagine a posh family not unlike his own playing happy-get-together and presenting as such to the outside world. Ugh.

“Oh, it is not. There may be fights, of course, but it’s not as bad as some holidays. Christmas is always nice though, no one is allowed to discuss anything problematic.” 

Crowley grimaces and takes Aziraphale’s hand over their table. A young woman comes and collects their dishes. Crowley pays and they return to their building - this time they enter Aziraphale’s flat.

“Do you have to go?” Crowley asks after they have spent some time busying themselves - Aziraphale reading and Crowley doing anything but reading. He’s currently situated face down on Aziraphale’s sofa, feet in the air and glasses askew.

“Hm? Oh, yes,” Aziraphale answers and closes his book.

“Why?”

“What why? Why - because it’s family and because we do this every second month.”

“I’d rather jump off a bridge than see my mother every second month,” Crowley mumbles into the cushions. Aziraphale offers him a weak, but slightly amused smile.

“London or Tower?”

“Neither, I’d awkwardly tumble over the Millenium Bridge, get my foot stuck in one of those white thingies and either get eaten by pigeons, eventually fall off into the water or get saved by my guardian angel.” Crowley turns and beams at Aziraphale.

“Huh, how am I supposed to save you from dangling off a bridge? Thoughts and prayers?”

“Yeah, maybe not the best idea, right? Well, gotta stick with you then. When are we attending your lovely family dinner?”

Aziraphale drops the book. He hastily picks it up and checks it for any damage, then carefully sets it onto the coffee table between them. 

“We are not. I am attending it next friday.”

“Well, lucky you, fridays is my day off.”

“Well, lucky you, you do not have to come and I will suffer alone.” Aziraphale crosses his arms. Crowley sits up and mimicks his moves.

“Maybe I’d like to see you suffer,” he smirks.

“Maybe you would, but you, my dear, will not come with me.”

“You are no fun, angel.”

“No, this dinner will be no fun and I am protecting you,” Aziraphale says. He sighs and gets up, leaving Crowley with his mouth open, ready to taunt back. When he comes back, he hands Crowley a cup of hot cocoa and settles down again with his own cup in hand.

“Aziraphale. I’m sorry, I- see, I know you’re dreading the dinner already. Maybe it could be a bit more fun if I came with you?” Crowley drops the teasing and simply asks. 

“I don’t know, I don’t want you to...witness my family in full action. This sounds so bad,” he shakes his head, sips at his cocoa and tries again: “My family isn’t bad, not really. They’re just not the best at empathy and communicating anything outside of work, which can be exhausting. They are not bad people.”

“But you don’t like spending time with them,” Crowley notes. Aziraphale shrugs a little helpless and Crowley wants nothing more than to wrap him in a fluffy blanket and shield him from anything hurtful. Instead of that, he gets up and leans on to the armchair, where he snugs one arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. The lean into the half hug and Crowley stays like this. Close and safe.

“It’s alright that you don’t agree with your family at certain points, you know? And it’s okay that there are fights, as long as you respect one another. If you want, I can come with you. If not, I’ll be here when you come back.”

Aziraphale nods and Crowley does not address his tearful eyes. They spend the next hours walking around a park close by, getting lunch and then proceeding with their own little lifes in their own flats. Aziraphale cleans, listens to Mozart and does not think about Crowley’s offer. Crowley takes care of his plants, does pilates and does not think about his angel next door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got any thoughts?? Let me know!! :D


	17. Meeting the Family (for real this time)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley meets Family Fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Thanks so much for the lovely comments last chapter (more comments always welcome!).  
> I know we've all been dreading this....here we go lmao.
> 
> Hope you like it! :D
> 
> Edit: just so you know, I changed Uriel to Ariel for ...well my purpose of a mother with an unusual but not Too unusual name, hope you can accept that :D if not, let's pretend she's just another angel

It is friday. Fucking family friday. Well, not fucking as in fucking the family, but as in meet-the-fucking-fucked-family. Fuck. Crowley ungracefully drops his legs and ends his rather impressive handstand. No reason to continue his workout with his mind spiralling like this.

He glares at the closest plant, a small ivy. “This is your fault,” he huffs, no venom in his voice, and rolls up his yoga mat. It was his choice, after all. He and Aziraphale had argued all week, over lunch, dinner, via texts, but he did not back down. And with every exchange Aziraphale had become less vigorous, less determined to keep him out, less good at hiding his sweet smile and growing amusement.

Crowley knows what he wants and that is his angel. If he has to go and make an awkward family-meeting even more awkward, but in such a way that it makes his boyfriend feel better, so be it. 

Aziraphale is already at his shop, so he can close a bit earlier. Crowley, who does not work at the “Witches Corner” on Fridays, uses the time for sport, his plants and a window shopping spree to calm his nerves. He would be good, confident, strong. He had to be, otherwise he’d be another issue Aziraphale had to deal with. He wants to make this get-together more bearable, not worse.

Home again, he picks his best yes-I-have-money-I-am-a-rutheless-manager-in-heavy-arms-business-don’t-fuck-with-me outfit. For once, he doesn’t suppress the feeling that comes with it, lets the power and coldness wash over him. He’s standing taller, the sharp suit clinging to him like a satin armour.

Aziraphale arrives when Crowley zips his small bag with necessities for the next day. Crowley opens the door and a grin spreads across his face as Aziraphale stares at him, frozen.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he says with a wink.

“Crowley!” Crowley, already halfway in the living room again, turns. A light flashes and Crowley gapes.

“Zira, this was a joke.”

“And I think it was a great idea. You look stunning,” Aziraphale replies and puts his phone back. He’ll have to figure out how to change his background later, so he could look at his handsome boyfriend whenever he pleased.

“Well, you don’t look to bad either, Mr Fell,” Crowley says and sashays over. He takes Aziraphale’s hand and leads him into the flat, then promptly closes the door to properly greet, aka kiss, aka smother him. Aziraphale does not complain.

They leave with a small bag each, weirdly matching in their outfits - clean suits, one black and sharp around the edges, one white and soft, both expensive and both worn with confidence. Crowley lets Aziraphale choose the music as he hits the gas pedal. The Bentley surges forward, blasting Queen once again.

They drive for quite a bit, Crowley smoothly but rapidly navigates them through the early evening traffic. Once they’re in Kensington, the traffic becomes less. Big, bright houses surround them. Crowley scoffs, Aziraphale keeps a carefully blank face.

In general, Crowley likes London’s posh areas - the architecture, the perfect gardens (if there were any gardens), the immaculate fashion everywhere - but he despises the people’s attitudes and entitlement. Now, here they are. Crowley stops in front of one of those 30 million pound houses when Aziraphale tells him they’ve arrived. White as snow, looming over the sleek, dark car, the house hovers, a golden nameplate announcing they reached ‘Fell Estate’. 

He glares at the huge SUV in front of him. “Do you think I can park here?”

“Oh, for sure. There shouldn’t be any other cars and yours is definitely worth standing in front of their house,” Aziraphale says. Crowley laughs and nods, as they would have had to park two streets away if he’d had anything less chique. 

Before Crowley can open the door, Aziraphale takes his hand.

“Okay, you’ve met Gabriel. You know my dad is similar to him, yes? My mother is nicer, but can be cold too, just - so you know. Oh, and Michael will probably be there too.”

Crowley knows about Aziraphale’s parents, Sandalphon and Ariel (which had told him everything he needs to know about how Aziraphale got his name). However, he hasn’t heard about this Michael yet, so he raises an expectant eyebrow. Aziraphale complies:

“They’re my cousin, the only child of my mother’s brother. Doesn’t matter, we’re not especially close with that part of the family. But Michael’s always been close to my mother and they work in Gabriel’s law firm, so.” He shrugs. Crowley, not surprised about the general information, is taken aback by how casual Aziraphale uses the pronouns for Michael. His brother - if only in this two minute experience Crowley got - didn’t seem like an especially tolerant and accepting person, but maybe he misjudged.

Finally, they get out of the car. Crowley gets their bags and locks the Bentley, Aziraphale takes on the terrifying task of ringing the bell. They only wait for half a minute, then a tall man opens the door.

“Good day, Aziraphale, come- oh. I told you to not bring him along.” Gabriel leans against the door without any attempt to let them inside the house. Aziraphale scoffs and Crowley offers his brightest smile. Only his sunglasses prevent Gabriel’s immediate death from murderous glares.

“Well, he’s here now, brother. Just because you don’t have a partner worth bringing along, does not mean I cannot bring mine.” Crowely’s smug grin vanishes and he needs to force his mouth shut to not stare at Aziraphale. Gabriel seems similarly speechless, at least he lets them enter the hallway.

The house is as pretentious inside, as its facade. Crowley sees his reflection in the polished marble tiles. He looks back up, drops his bag next to a big staircase and checks his surroundings. Aziraphale places his tartan-patterned bag next to Crowley’s.

“Aziraphale, you made it on time. Welcome, welcome,” a new voice says. Crowley examines the small woman who comes up to them. She’s a natural beauty, but the etui-dress certainly supports her elevated and elegant look. She’s a bit smaller than Aziraphale, rises up to kiss him on the cheek and then turn towards Crowley.

“Mother, this is- Crowley. He’s my partner and I would like you to meet him.”

Crowley takes the offered hand and is rewarded with a firm shake. “Pleasure to meet you,” he grins. 

“Likewise. Tell me, Crowley, are you a showoff?”

“No, ma’am. Well, I can be, but I need my glasses, because of an eye condition. Please don’t feel offended,” Crowley replies. Wait, did he just call her ma’am? Well, this woman looks like someone you’d address like that.

She smirks and nods. “I understand. No offense taken, you may call me Ariel, by the way.” If he’s not mistaken, Aziraphale’s mother had just winked at him.

He looks over to Aziraphale, who shrugs. He mouthes ‘I told you, she’s alright’.

“What are you doing here, why don’t you all come into the salon?” A third person enters the scene. Crowley wonders how Gabriel managed to become this tall, with both parents being rather average-size as well as Aziraphale. Sandalphon, Crowley assumes, has a rather deep and loud voice for a man so compact. He looks like a mixture of his sons.

“Aziraphale, on time for once! And you are?”

“The reason why he’s on time,” Crowley answers. Sandalphon, neither offering a handshake nor a real hello, looks through the door's clear window. After he’s spotted the car, he turns to Crowley with more interest.

“That’s good. I’m Sandalphon Fell.” Still no handshake, but Crowley can live with that.

“Crowley, pleased to meet you. I’m-”

“I don’t care in which way exactly you associate with my son.”

“We’re neighbours,” Crowley bites back. Sandalphon raises an eyebrow, Aziraphale stifles a gasp and Crowley can practically hear Gabriel grit his teeth.

“Oh, alright.”

“And lovers.”

Sandalphon leaves the hallway. Gabriel pushes past them to follow him. All Crowley can do, is smile satisfied and press a victory-kiss on Aziraphale’s temple. His ‘lover’ hums a distressed noise. 

“Okay, let’s join them in the salon, you two.” Ariel walks away, but Crowley catches the amused look on her face. Crowley interlaces his fingers with Aziraphale’s and they follow the other family members.

“You are horrible,” Aziraphale whispers and squeezes Crowley’s hand.

“Oh, you love it.”

“I do.”

Sandalphon and Ariel occupy a large sofa, Gabriel sits in an armchair as if it were his throne. Maybe it is - Crowley considers overthrowing the king.

The final guest enters from another door, a large silver tray in hands. Ariel takes the tea cups down and tells them, to sit down as well. Aziraphale tucks himself neatly into one side of the love seat, Crowley makes himself more comfortable on the other half.

Michael, Crowley assumes, sets the tray down and pats Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Good to see you again, Raphael. I’m glad you made it, who’s your friend?” They look at Crowley with curious, careful eyes. Michael is a gorgeous human, with pale skin like Aziraphale, but a very delicate figure and shimmery makeup, similar to Ariel’s. 

“This is Crowley, Crowley, this is Michael.”

“Hi,” Crowley waves at them and receives a sceptical look. Well, he tried.

“Get your tea, all of you, and Michael please sit down, finally.” Michael nods at Sandalphon’s order, but gets Crowley and Aziraphale their respective cups of tea first. They sit down next to Gabriel, in the only other armchair close by. 

And thus, the boring part starts. Crowley tries - he really tries to be interested, respond when appropriate and fake overall sympathy. After half an hour of Gabriel bragging about his latest successes and Sandalphon railing against all “those wasters and losers”, Crowley wants to take off his glasses and stare into the sun.

“...so, what did you say you do?” Aziraphale’s elbow in Crowley’s rib gets him back into the here-and-now. Raised eyebrows meet him. 

“Huh? Sorry, I was-”

“I wanted to know what you do for a living,” Sandalphon repeats.

“No, no. Let us guess,” Gabriel suggests with a cold smirk. He nudges Michael, who looks sceptical as ever, but shoots Crowley a considering look.

“Tailor? Your suit is remarkable, by the way.”

“Thank you and no,” Crowley grins. He leans back, one arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale shakes his head in amusement and decides to simply watch the game.

“Nah, he’s a broker of some sort,” Sandalphon joins the guessing. Aziraphale hums, he knows his father isn’t the friendliest, but he’s a good judge of character.

“Close,” Crowley mutters. He should have just said he sells plants. Oh well, here goes nothing. He gives his best shark-like grin. “Financial manager, actually.”

“Interesting, any company one might know?” Sandalphon asks, Gabriel tilts his head. Judging by their looks, they’re still conflicted - he wears expensive clothes and has a vintage car, but is he really one of them?

“Yes, but I am not going to talk about business. The company’s Red - arms.” He should have definitely sticked to his plants, he does not want to talk about this. 

“Alright, Michael, how is your...life?” Aziraphale interjects in a poor attempt to end the discussion. Crowley meekly pats his shoulder.

“How interesting! You don’t need any lawyers, I assume?” Gabriel asks, completely ignoring Aziraphale and Michael.

“No, we’re good,” Crowley politely declines, murderous glares back on.

The evening is a rollercoaster. Most conversations are eerily polite, some actually interesting and most of them presumptuous and shallow. Michael seems to be decent, as long as they’re not slandering colleagues. Gabriel is full of himself - which is full of shit, Crowley decides. He likes Ariel, he decides. 

The real showdown happens during their dinner. They’ve moved from the salon to a big dining table in another room - another salon? A living room? And Gabriel addresses Aziraphale’s bookshop again. Crowley sits next to Aziraphale and opposite of Gabriel - he has to hold onto his boyfriend as to not kick his stupid brother.

“I agree! We did not pay for your American college so you could waste all of it and all your intelligence,” Sandalphon concurs. Michael sighs, obviously this isn’t the first time this is the hot topic at dinner.

“Please, can we drop this? I like my career, I am very happy with the bookshop,” Aziraphale tries to defend himself. Crowley feels his muscles tense under his hand that rests on Aziraphale’s arm.

“No, you should listen. Don’t you want to make us proud?”

“I- that’s not my-,” Aziraphale stutters and it breaks Crowley’s heart. He looks at Ariel, maybe she would be able to pour oil on troubled waters. But Ariel just continues to eat her food in tiny bits.

“This is a waste of time, dad. He’s proud of his little shop and meager lifestyle. Trust me, I tried to talk to him - remember, I told you?” Gabriel tells his father, then tears into the next piece of pork roast. Sandalphon nods, then shakes his head at Aziraphale, disappointment written all over his face.

“I’m sorry, I don’t see the problem here. What’s wrong with him leading the life he wants to? He is obviously very happy with it, isn’t that what counts?” Crowley has long abandoned his food. He crosses his arms and challenges Sandalphon to answer. Or Gabriel. Any of them, really. 

“We only want him to live the best life he can, our family strives for more than the average man. I bet your family is the same. Look at you, you’re a son to be proud of,” Sandalphon says and waves his hand dismissively. Crowley barely keeps the laugh bubbling up at bay and claps his hands together. He nudges Aziraphale.

“Zira, can you believe it? I’m a son to be proud of, awww, maybe your parents can adopt me?”

“Don’t joke about that, we’d be siblings,” Aziraphale grins, then shakes his head petrified. Better not, yes. 

“Aziraphale, we do not mind you not working with your brother. You’ve never been the most compatible, but you could still achieve something with your degree elsewhere,” Ariel interjects. Aziraphale closes his eyes, his response more a sigh than an actual response.

“No, mother.”

“Alright, let’s talk about something else,” Ariel agrees and turns to Michael. Crowley tunes out most of the conversations then, he drinks his wine and caresses Aziraphale’s hand. They make it through some decent dessert and only a few awkward topics before they call it a night. Sandalphon and Gabriel retreat to the salon to talk some more, Ariel goes straight to bed. 

Crowley, Aziraphale and Michael stand in the hallway. 

“That was clearly something,” Aziraphale mutters and Crowley wants to kiss the annoyed frown from his lover’s face. Michael nods and walks up the stairs first.

“It’s the usual. And, Raphael, I get that you don’t want to work with Gabriel, you two are too different. But they’re right, you know? You are so clever, so good. It’s just a pity that you don’t use it, that’s all.”

“Not you too,” Crowley grumbles, dragging his bag after him, hoping it’ll leave some stains on the oh-so-perfect white stairs. It doesn’t.

“I’m just saying, we’ve been to Yale together, he’s brilliant,” Michael says. They’ve reached the next storey. Michael opens the first door to their left.

“Well, his decision. Good night, you two. See you at breakfast,” they say and vanish into the room after Aziraphale and Crowley bid their good-bye. Aziraphale opens the door to their right, which they enter unceremoniously, drained from the evening.

“Nice,” Crowley mumbles, when he sees a perfect succulent in the window. Without further inspection he drops onto the big bed, stares at the ceiling and pats blindly for Aziraphale to join him. He does and Crowley immediately curls up to him.

“What an evening...thanks for coming with me,” Aziraphale whispers as he threads his fingers through Crowley’s long hair. 

“Of course,” Crowley replies. “Gotta say, I kinda like your mom. And Michael? Not sure, still better than the men in your family. Glad, I got the only decent one.”

“I’m only decent, my dear?” Aziraphale turns so they face one another. He carefully takes Crowley’s glasses off, then he proceeds to fondle with the red curls. Crowley practically purrs. He closes his eyes and snuggles closer to Aziraphale’s warmth and safety.

“More than decent, absolutely fantastic, sweet, kind, beautiful, lovely.”

“Now you’re laying it on thick, dear,” Aziraphale chuckles.

“‘m not, it’s true. Your weird family doesn’t deserve you.”

“It’s not that easy. I’m glad I deserve you, you’ve become so important and so dear to me.”

Crowley huddles even closer, face buried in Aziraphale’s chest. He hums contently, one leg slung across Aziraphale’s middle.

“Same, love you.” He freezes. His heart pounds in his chest, trying to break out. He whispers: “Is...this alright?”

Aziraphale takes a while to respond, but Crowley doesn’t dare to lean back to look at him. He keeps his eyes firmly shut, hands holding onto Aziraphale’s cotton shirt.

“I might faint, but that’s alright,” Aziraphale mutters, the grin audible. Crowley shoves him and pulls himself up into a half-sitting position to gaze at Aziraphale. 

“The hell? Really, you choose to make fun of me? You are a bastard, a rascal and a- a-,”

“But you love me anyways,” Aziraphale smiles sweetly. Crowley seethes - because he can’t stop his frown from turning into a foolish grin. How useless, faces, what are they even good for.

“No,” he grumbles. Aziraphale, to his delight, looks unsure for a moment. “I love you because of it,” Crowley finishes. 

“You are terrible, my dear. Come here,” Aziraphale laughs and pulls him into a kiss. And another one. Crowley settles back down and lets Aziraphale plant small kisses over his cheekbones, jaw and neck.

“I love you too.”

“Glad to hear it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HHNG THOUGHTS?? 👀👀


	18. Pillows, Breakfast, Goodbye's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second half of meeting the Fell family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> There's not a lot happening in this chapter (so it's the usual lmao)  
> It's once again not beta'd, point out major mistakes or errors please!
> 
> Now, get to it and have fun :D

Rapid knocks wake them the next day. Crowley throws his pillow towards the door or at least the general direction. It flops to the floor unceremoniously.

“Get up, breakfast is ready in twenty minutes,” Michael says. Their voice is muffled through the door, but the impatience is impossible to miss. Aziraphale makes a non-committing noise and Michael leaves.

“Morning,” Crowley yawns. He places his head on Aziraphale’s chest - because he hasn’t got his pillow anymore, not because of his very cuddly nature.

“Morning, dear. Slept well?”

“Well, yeah, I’d say so. Let’s continue this sleep-business,” Crowley mumbles and closes his eyes again. Aziraphale chuckles, sleep-laced and quiet.

“I fear we can’t do this. We’ve gotta survive the breakfast and then we can go back home.”

“Survive...survive? More like battle through, strap in, angel.”

“Will do, I’ve experienced your driving, after all.” Before Crowley can protest and argue that his driving is actually a blessing and it’s an honour to even ride shotgun with him, Aziraphale dims all thoughts with a sweet kiss to Crowley’s messy curls. Immediately, he props himself up on one elbow to snatch a kiss from Aziraphale’s lips. And another one.

He places small kisses down the pale, velvety soft cheeks and traces down a path to his neck.

“Oi! Breakfast in ten minutes, hurry the fuck up!” A deeper, booming voice.

“Gabriel, language!”

Crowley sighs and nibbles meekly at Aziraphale’s collarbone and earns an equally exasperated sigh. Heavy steps fade down the stairs, followed by quicker, lighter one’s. Gabriel and Michael are gone again, but will probably come back if they don’t get up soon.

“Alright, come on,” Aziraphale says. He carefully kisses Crowley’s cheek, innocent like a first spring breeze, leaving Crowley all flustered. Aziraphale, now determined to get this family-meeting over with, hurries into the bathroom next door.

Crowley stretches until all his joints popped satisfyingly, then groans. Grudgingly, he rolls over and gets his bag. The silk shirt he’ packed is luckily not crinkled. His hair tie matches the silver embroideries. He might not fit into the elite’s mindset, but at least he looks worth a million - a million what’s it called? bucks? That doesn’t sound very british. Maybe it’s a million ducks.

When they finally walk into the big room with the dining table, Gabriel and Sandalphon already sit over cups of coffee and talk animatedly. Ariel comes in from the kitchen and hands Michael a big mug, then looks up and greets them.

“Good morning to you, too,” Aziraphale replies with a small smile. Ariel gestures for them to sit down and Crowley analyses the laid table. He counts three types of bread, six variations of marmalade and jelly, a huge cutting board with cheese and one with cold cuts. There’s more, but now he’s lost interest. While Aziraphale carefully sits down and smoothes out the napkin in front of him, Crowley slumps down without a second thought and helps himself to a banana. 

“So, you’re going back to work then?” Sandalphon spreads so much butter on to his bread that Crowley wonders whether that’s where his slick look and attitude come from.

Aziraphale and he share a look - what kind of question. 

“Obviously, but only on Monday,” Crowley drawls and adjusts his glasses. He dunks the peeled banana in a glass of strawberry marmalade. The whole table cringes as Crowley pulls the banana back out, licks it and then bites half of it off.

“I guess the same goes for you?” He addresses Gabriel, who forces a neutral expression on his face and nods.

“Well, I’ll be in and meeting with clients, but of course I’ll work for this big case today and tomorrow. After all, idleness is the root of all evil.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at that and had Crowley not looked at him in that moment, he wouldn’t believe his angel would do something so downright rude at his brother. He proudly squeezes his hand, earning a helpless glance. It seems like Aziraphale also did not believe he was capable of such actions. Gabriel only glares at them.

“Fantastic, if anyone’s interested, I’ll be meeting with a potential new client tomorrow too. We’re going golfing,” Michael says, probably to break the awkward silence.

Ariel, to everyone’s relief, picks up the lifeline. “Oh, that’s great, Michael! I’m sure you can’t drop names, but what kind of client is it and what’s the case about?”

The breakfast could be worse. Everytime Gabriel or Sandalphon jibe at Aziraphale, Crowley abuses a banana, a breadstick or just eats some of the spreads straight out of the glass all the while staring at the respective bully. Aziraphale blushes every single time and when Cowley puts his finger in one of the jellies and slowly licks it off, Michael has to cover a giggle with a poorly executed cough.

They leave sated, satisfied and leave the Fell’s amused and mortified. Crowley hugs Ariel and gets a pat on the shoulder from Michael, both of them are alright. Gabriel fails at being overly polite and goes back into the salon with a grunt. 

Sandalphon sighs, when he shakes Aziraphale’s hand. “Don’t think, we’re done with this discussion, son. Despite all of your missteps, I’m sure Gabriel would still give you a job. Keep it in mind, we want to be proud of all our family members.” He glances at Crowley, who brightly grins back, bag over his shoulder and ready to go. “A change of acquaintances might help, too,” he adds darkly. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, all soft patience replaced with a stormy determination.

“There’s no need for something like that, father. I am glad you care for me and I appreciate it, but you don’t seem to understand what I need or want. I’m very happy to have Crowley in my life, so you by all means should be happy for me. Have a good day.”

Without further goodbye's, he walks to the Bentley. Crowley waves finger guns at them, which coaxes a small, sceptical smile from Ariel and an exasperated turn and leave from Sandalphon. They get into the car and Crowley blasts Queen as they speed away from the posh neighbourhood.

“That was fun,” he grins.

“Fun? It most certainly wasn’t,” Aziraphale says, but his frown dissolves fast enough. He faces Crowley, when he talks to him. “But I’m glad you insisted on coming with me. It really made it- well...more fun.”

“Hah, see? I’m such an enrichment of your life. And we’ve done the whole meet-the-parents thing now too. Does this make us official-official?” He wiggles his eyebrows. Once the question is out, he looks back on the road. What if they are? But what if Aziraphale doesn’t want that? Is he too fast, too forward, too much?

“Crowley, you are an enrichment to my life, don’t joke about it like that. And I guess it does. I’d like to be official-official,” Aziraphale smiles so contently that Crowley risks to gaze over. 

“Great, great. Official partners in annoying the parents.”

“Official partners. Thank you for being there for me. I love you,” Aziraphale agrees with delight and leans over to kiss Crowley on the cheek. They jump a red light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo....THOUGHTS?? 👀


	19. So many friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, people!
> 
> This is not actually me coming back, obviously, but have this!  
> As per usual, not beta'd or edited in any way lmao.

Although Aziraphale had said not to dwell on it, Crowley still thinks about this Fell-family-get-together. He’s buried in soil, a daisy tucked behind his ear and he talks to Anathema about Aziraphale’s terrible male family members.

“I know, I know,” she sighs for the second time today. It is Thursday, almost a week has passed and Crowley can’t get over the poor treatment his boyfriend got.

“Well, what can I do?” He pats the soil aggressively so the Begonias are tucked in safely. Maybe a bit shaky and slightly scared now, but safe nonetheless.

“Nothing. And what you could do, you did. You stood up for him and you were there for and with him, that’s all there really is.”

Crowley sighs in return. He knows Anathema is right and that he did everything he could, but it feels as if it’s not enough. He feels bad for Aziraphale. The man is a literal angel, endlessly kind, clever and interesting. Regardless, his brother and father treat him like he is not worthy to sit at the same table. Crowley knows Aziraphale hasn’t got any close friends - only that he gets along with Michael sometimes - which doesn’t really count.

“Yeah, but- I don’t know. I want him to feel appreciated and loved. I hope I’m enough.”

Anathema takes off her gloves and puts her arm around Crowley’s waist. It’s not really a hug, yet comforting. Crowley nods, not capable to say the ‘thank you’ Anathema deserves. Maybe Aziraphale needs an Anathema too. Not his Anathema, though he’d be happy to share her, but a friend of his own. He discards the thought almost immediately - it is not his job, to interfere with Aziraphale’s choices. _He_ ’ll be there for him as best as he can.

“Look at you,” he mutters to one of the Begonias and rubs dust off the leaves. He works away in silence, mulling over the dinner, the breakfast, Aziraphale’s family and his own messed up relationships.

It’s half an hour before he normally leaves work when his phone rings. He abandons the bouquet for someone’s anniversary and heads to the back room. On the way he retreats his phone, expecting the caller ID to be Aziraphale’s. It isn’t.

“Uh...hi,” he says and closes the door behind him. A moment of silence and he nearly hangs up. He hasn’t got the time for games like that.

 _“Crowley, hey. Long time no hear.”_ Crowley snorts, but it’s not as malicious as he wishes it to be.

“True, what do you want, Ligur?”

_“I’ve got a new job. I’m working for this company, it’s great and...well...so I no longer…”_

“You don’t work for my mother anymore.”

 _“Yes. Fancy a drink?”_ Crowley considers it. Ligur sounds nervous, but genuinely happy to let Crowley know he’s not an associate of Red anymore. 

“Why not, yeah, let’s do that.”

 _“Cool, I’m really happy about it, Crowley. We’ve missed you.”_ Ligur seems to be honest, but Crowley rolls his eyes for good measure.

“Oh, I can imagine. I bet Hastur cries every night.”

 _“Well, no he doesn’t,”_ Ligur admits with a chuckle. _“But Beel and Dagon do miss you, I swear!”_

Crowley knows what Ligur implies and rolls his eyes again. He sighs and feels a small smile, despite his reluctance.

“If they’re free, they can come as well. But I’m bringing someone too.”

 _“Oh?”_ Ligur’s curiosity will get him in trouble eventually. Crowley thinks it might have as well been the reason why he ‘left’ his mother’s company in the first place.

“Yes, you’ll see. Saturday night?”

_“Yup! The usual place. I’m really looking forward to it, see you then!”_

Crowley hangs up and stares at the phone. Did this just happen? He finishes his bouquet and another one, mists the flowers in the front of the shop and leaves. Now he has to tell Aziraphale they’ll be meeting his old friends. Great.

He collects Aziraphale at the bookshop’s front door and they head for some soul food. Once seated, Aziraphale orders their drinks and recounts the events in the shop. Nothing too out of the ordinary, although some woman tried very hard to buy a first edition Oscar Wilde, which Aziraphale only displays in a showcase and which is not for sale.

“I told her three times, can you imagine?” He scoffs at Crowley’s fond smile.

“I had to walk her out the door and she still tried to offer me more and more money - as if that would change anything!”

“Oh yes, as if buying something that’s in a shop is about the price at all,” Crowley comments. Aziraphale pouts, knowing Crowley’s right and that he should expect people in a bookshop to be interested in purchasing books. He’s still appalled about the sheer force he needed to get rid off her.

“Anyways, that’s about it. How was your day, how is Anathema?”

“Oh, she’s fine. Newton dropped a pot today,” Crowley tells him and rants about some of the plants and orders for a while. They drink, order their food, get their food. When Aziraphale studies the menu for a suitable dessert, Crowley finally addresses what’s been on his mind all the time.

“Are you free this Saturday?”

Aziraphale looks up, confused. He puts the menu down and nods slowly.

“Of course, you know this. Any plans?” His eyes brighten, curiously. Crowley caresses his angel’s hand, links their fingers together, looks up.

“Uh, yeah. An old friend called, so I thought we could meet him - and maybe some other friends, not sure about that yet. I told you about Ligur?”

Aziraphale’s expression lightens. “Of course! The guy you worked with who’s always been funny and a bit too curious for his own good? You talked about him and his...partner?”

“Hng. Hastur, yeah. He’s not coming, luckily.” Crowley shivers. He does not need this unsettling man any closer than right now, and especially not in any way close to Aziraphale. 

“Well, it’ll be a pleasure to meet them, I’d say,” Aziraphale beams. 

Crowley stays at Aziraphale’s this evening, they watch some silly TV show and Aziraphale attempts to braid Crowley’s hair. Their Friday is lazy, Aziraphale works, Crowley hangs out at the shop and does yoga at home. Saturday comes and the hours pass unnoticed.

“Fuck! Where’s my-”

“Language, dear!” Aziraphale says as he holds up the snakeskin boot Crowley was looking for. Crowley grabs it and rigorously puts it on.

“Sorry,” he says and kisses his angel’s temple.

 

* * *

 

“Calm down, I should be the nervous one, you know those people.”

“I- pfff, but I haven’t seen them in forever!” Crowley crosses his arms and avoids Aziraphale’s gaze. Once they’re both dressed, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand. He places a tender kiss into the palm and on to the wrist.

“It’ll be fun, I promise,” he tells his angel and maybe he's reassuring himself a bit as well. Aziraphale hums and kisses him.

“I believe you. Off we go,” he replies and locks the door behind them. As they’re meeting at a bar, Crowley chooses to spare the Bentley and rather opts for a cab. Neither of them comment on Aziraphale’s relieved look as soon as he’s safely in the black car which neither speeds nor ignores traffic laws as if it were a game.

They arrive five minutes early, Crowley tugs at his jacket sleeves and eyes the bar. Aziraphale links their arms and presses a kiss to his worried looking partner’s cheek.

“So, we’ve never been here?”

“Yeah, no. Didn’t want to bump into anyone I might know,” Crowley explains as they go. The bar looks busy already, cosy enough and classic rock plays. Crowley liked to come here with Ligur, sometimes some other coworkers after a long work day. It’s not all good memories and not everyone’s his friend anymore, so he kept a reasonable distance. Until now.

They make their way to the bar, where Crowley flags down a barkeeper with arms as huge as their heads. He grins as soon as he recognises Crowley.

“Ho, Crowley? Didn’t think I’d ever see you again! Ligur’s reserved the usual table, go right through with your friend!” He toasts towards Aziraphale with an empty glass. Crowley pulls his fascinated boyfriend along and sits down at the round table. It’s a good spot, you can oversee most of the space, it has sofa-like seats and two lamps instead of the smaller tables which only have one.

“Now we wait?”

“Now we wait,” Crowley agrees. He’s relieved when Aziraphale scoots closer and links fingers with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THOUGHTS?? 👀👀
> 
> (I'm still on holidays and there'll be a longer break now, so I hope you liked this one!  
> Next chapter probably comes in the second half of August.)


	20. Two friends, a few drinks and lots of banter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley meet two of Crowley's friends.  
> That's it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH WELCOME BACK!  
> I deleted all the filler-information chapters and this is your official chapter 20! Woohoo!  
> You know how it goes, this is not beta'd and barely edited. Point out major mistakes, thank.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it :D

Crowley spots his former co-workers as soon as they arrive at the bar. The short one gives a wave before both of them come over. Aziraphale has started to bounce his leg by now. Crowley, after a moment of consideration, places his hand on his angel’s thigh.

“‘s gonna be alright, look, they’re nice,” he murmurs.

Aziraphale’s reply is a tight-lipped smile.

A thin and a short figure slide into the chairs opposite of them. The thin one is shorter than the short one, but Crowley always thinks of Ligur as The Short One. He’s met him first. Then he has met The Thin And Short One. Beelzebub (of course, not her real name, but it should have been) is the skinniest person Crowley’s ever seen and she could still fight two people without breaking a sweat. 

“Hey guys,” Crowley drawls.

Beel gives a short nod, but Crowley likes to think she’s almost smirking, while Ligur lights up like a christmas tree.

“Crowley! It is so good to see you. How’ve you been? You must be…the someone Crowley mentioned ominously?” Aziraphale refrains from blushing and instead offers a smile. Crowley dares to think it is a somewhat proud smile. Or that’s just the nerves. Aziraphale’s, not his.  _ He _ hasn’t got nerves. As in, he is not nervous about his friends meeting the love of his li- anyway.

“I guess I am. At least, I hope so - I’m Aziraphale,” Aziraphale replies. Definitely proud. Crowley’s amazed when Beel follows through, after Aziraphale and Ligur shook hands. They order drinks - something creamy and sparkly for Ligur, a sophisticated wine for Aziraphale, something dark for Beel which she then doesn’t touch for ages, and a whiskey for Crowley.

“Good, now that that’s sorted out. Where the hell have you been? Did you lose your phone? Got abducted?” The way Beel is playing with one of the knives placed on the table makes Crowley consider his answer with care - he huffs.

“Sorry. Didn’t want to talk about, you know,  _ the business _ ,” Crowley says. Ligur casts his eyes down, then brightens again at a different thought.

“Yes! Business, now that you’ve mentioned it…” He trails off, looking at them with big eyes. When no one condescends to give an answer, he sighs. “I got a new job! It’s not too far away, but I’m considering to move so I don’t have to take the train and can finally make use of my car.” 

Crowley nods. Ligur, since Crowley’s known him, always came to work by train. Ligur, since Crowley’s known him, was never a fan of coming to work by train, especially not with a brand new, unused car in the garage. 

“Cars are wonderful, hope you can persuade Hastur to move houses for a car, he’ll probably do that. It’s a valid reason. Although, now that I think about it. I  _ don’t _ want to think about it, he’s your problem. I’d like to see the car though, one day.”

“Definitely. But, Crowley, I know you and Hastur don’t like each other very much, that’s why I didn’t bring him along and instead-” Whoops. Beel has stopped dragging her thumb over the knife.

“Excuse me?”

“Wha-  _ no _ ! I mean, I wanted to ask you and Dagon either way! It’s only that I also considered bringing Hastur. You were by no means second choice,” Ligur explains. His eyes dart over to them and Crowley snorts. Beel’s intimidations are funny as long as they don’t come upon him. Aziraphale, always the kindest, draws his eyebrows together and mouths ‘there, there’.

Crowley is glad that it’s Ligur and Beel who came to meet them. Ligur can talk for hours, but not the way Crowley does - with stutters, mind- and story-changes mid sentence - but in a storytelling way as one would imagine the voiceover to a tv show, or the narrator of an audiobook. Ligur talks about the new job, the people he’s met and how he tries to keep up with his old friends. Crowley tries very hard not to laugh when he finds out about Ligur, Hastur and the Erics (three guys named Eric who still work for Red) taking dancing lessons every Tuesday. 

“I like to watch people dance, but I’m not a dancer myself,” Aziraphale chimes in. Crowley is happy about it, as he has been very quiet for some time now. He walks his fingers over Aziraphale’s lap until he’s met with a hand, which he links his fingers with.

“We could dance, angel.” Crowley wiggles his eyebrows at him. Beel snorts, shaking her head.

“You couldn’t, please don’t let him coax you into dancing. He’s awful.”

“What? I am not, I’m a  _ fantastic _ dancer. The audacity,” Crowley revolts. Beel shrugs, but now Aziraphale is interested. He leans forward, decidedly not looking at his curious boyfriend and asks Beel: “How do you know that? There wouldn’t be...a video or something?”

“Errr-”

“No!” Crowley stares at one after the other, eyes widened in horror, glasses slipping from his nose. He pushes them back up, hissing at Beel and Ligur. “I dare you.”

For a moment, you could have heard a pin drop. Then, Aziraphale starts to giggle.

“I take that as a ‘yes, there is footage’.”

“If you ever see it, I’m gonna lie on the M25 and you will be banned from the funeral, because you will not ever look at me again.”

“Alright, dear, alright. I guess I’m not seeing this video then. What a pity, I was really excited. You look so beautiful and I am sure you can move your body in a very compelling way and-”

Crowley covers Aziraphale’s mouth, his face by now as red as his hair. Ligur and Beel glance at each other. They glance back at Crowley and Aziraphale. Ligur breaks first and elicits a short laugh from Beel as well. Crowley mumbles something unintelligible. 

It becomes something swear word-heavier when he sees Aziraphale’s shoulders wiggle. That bastard is enjoying the attention! How dare he have fun with  _ his _ friends. Crowley orders more whiskey once he reluctantly let go of Aziraphale’s face. 

Luckily, the upcoming topics are less Crowley’s shameful-or-secondhand-embarrassing-behaviour-centric. Ligur talks about his car, the company he’s working for, and of course some more about Hastur and his new hobbies with the Erics, Dagon and other friends. While Crowley laughs about the stories, mocks the various old-people-sports and tries to be as cunning as usual - he really missed his friends. He won’t go dancing or kayaking. Nevertheless, he would have liked to be invited to at least one of these at one point.

Beel participates in rounds of laughter, but is otherwise mostly quiet. Crowley liked her back when they were occasionally working together, because she is a fierce, focussed and very strategic person, although a bit seclusive. What she does tonight, however, is share some sentences here and there with Aziraphale. Crowley is stunned and his ears are strained. Aziraphale’s soft voice is lost in the waves of talking and laughing from all around them. He’s glad they get along - and curious as to what common grounds they have to discuss.

“It’s getting late.”

Crowley looks up from the snake he’s folding. The napkin is unforgiving and collapses as soon as he relaxes his hold on it. “Agh, hell,” Crowley comments and drops the now very wrinkly cloth. 

“He’s right, my dear,” Aziraphale says and yawns. Adorable.

They finish their drinks and pay - soon enough they are out at the car park. Beel’s red sports car is parked on the opposite side of Crowley’s. For a moment, the four of them share awkward glances. What is the right way to say goodbye to each other?

“It was nice to meet you, Aziraphale. Maybe we can repeat this.” He gestures between them and at the bar.

“Oh, likewise! It was lovely to get to know both of you,” Aziraphale says. Beel nods, waves at them curtly and heads for the car.

“She’s my lift, gotta go! Have a nice evening, you two. And call me, Crowley.” Ligur follows Beel and doors get slammed shut. They drive by and Crowley and Aziraphale wave a final goodbye.

“So...what do you think?” Crowley interlaces his fingers with Aziraphale’s as they walk to his Bentley. Aziraphale hums, stroking his thumb over Crowley’s.

“I like them. Ligur is obviously a good man, I am glad he has this exciting job and he seems to be interested in maintaining a friendship.” Crowley nods. Ligur is much more sociable than he’ll ever be - or Beel.

“You also talked a lot with Beel, I couldn’t here you over the noises.”

“Ahh, that’s a shame, darling. We talked about a secondhand store both of us enjoy and about the asian cuisines.”

“Right. Of course you did, I should have known,” Crowley replies. Aziraphale scowls and gets in the car. “I didn’t say that. If you talked to her more, you might have known it.”

Crowley falls into the driver seat. They are halfway home, when he finally decides on what to say.

“Yeah. But I don’t know how to talk to her. Or to a lot of people. Ligur happens to know that and just started talking to me one day and that was fine. Beel and I are too similar, I think? I don’t know. We’ve never talked a lot but I guess I didn’t mind.”

He is aware of how this sounds. It’s only the truth and although he might come off as a weird loner. Well, he is a weird loner. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s something he’s not ashamed off anymore. 

“I understand that. Crowley, you are a very sweet, interesting and intelligent person. I’m not saying you should go all out and spill secrets to everybody you meet. It is, however, not a bad thing to have a few friends and to talk to them.”

“Pfffff. I know that, angel. I am talking to people, I’m talking to you, am I not?”

“Yes, you are. I’m very grateful for it, I wouldn’t want to miss you as part of my life.”

“Cheesy.”

“I could do with some cheese.” Crowley eyes him. Aziraphale shrugs and Crowley melts when he sees this innocent, loving smile. 

“Alright, let’s get some cheese, the rest of the wine and then go to bed.” He jumps a red light. Aziraphale clings to the seat, his smile scared stiff.

“Perfect plan, my dear,” he manages to say before they speed around a corner and he’s squished against the car’s window. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY, YOU! I'd be SO HAPPY if you'd leave a tiny little comment for me. So, do it.  
> NOW!


	21. A weapon, a snack and a confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A relaxed evening for Aziraphale and Crowley after socialising on Saturday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> Thanks for your patience, the comments on the last chapter made me SOOO HAPPY :DDD
> 
> Have fun, this is not beta'd, happy suffering!

After they’ve met Ligur and Beel on Saturday, the next days are lazy. They involve a lot of sleeping, cuddling, eating and some yoga, as well as a little bit of cooking. 

Crowley sleepwalks through the first half of the week - he takes care of the plants at the flower shop, he takes care of the plants at home, he let’s Aziraphale take care of him when he comes over every evening with either a fine wine or a tasty dessert. 

It’s Wednesday evening - after a long shower he switches into comfortable clothes and grabs the food for this evening. He spent his afternoon shopping for this and even bought a specific tool to eat it properly. With the mimolette swaying on a dark wooden board in one and the tool in his other hand, he leaves his flat. The door thuds shut.

He rings with his elbow, annoyed that he can’t open the door on his own. What’s taking Aziraphale so long? He’s been waiting forever - at least half a minute. He rings again, keeping his elbow pressed on to the doorbell.

“Angel! Open the goddamn door!”

He can hear hasty steps and he feels a grin tuck at his mouth. He shuffles as to present today’s present in the best light. When the door opens, he smirks:

“Guess what I’ve got here?”

“Oh goodness, are you finally murdering me?” Aziraphale does not seem to appreciate his sensitive choice to find a lovely, french, very expensive cheese. His smile falters.

“What? N- no, what? Why would you say that?!”

Aziraphale’s eyes shift from Crowley’s face to his right hand. Back to his face. To his hand. Crowley drops his gaze and - oh. The hard cheese knife he’s been lifting up might give a wrong impression indeed. Hell.

“Hah!” He let’s go of the knife. He did not mean to threaten his angel, what did he think?

“I am  _ so _ sorry, angel. Now, would you take this?” Crowley shoves the cheese in Aziraphale’s arms to get the knife from the floor and hold it safely by his side, blade down and away from his boyfriend. The boyfriend, who’s still blinking at him owlishly. Then he examines the cheese.

“This little thing looks absolutely delicious,” Aziraphale marvels and Crowley, trying to get inside the flat, sighs and stays where he is.

“Little? It’s more than six pounds, you ungrateful…” He does not know how to finish this sentence. It’s not that he doesn’t want to. But calling Aziraphale a mean name would be- mean? Ugh.

“I see, I see. Thank you dear, it is quiet the perfect cheese to go with the grapes, I think. Come in, then.”

Finally inside, they prepare their snacks in the kitchen and head over to Aziraphale’s hideous tartan sofa. Half of the cheese ends up in the fridge, the rest is cut into fine slices. Aziraphale balances the board with the slices on his thighs. Crowley leans with his back against him, daring the cheese to fall down. He hugs the bowl with grapes close to his chest with one hand and operates the remote with the other. 

Aziraphale threads his fingers through Crowley’s curls. They watch some game show, but Crowley doesn’t pay attention to it. He tosses the occasional grape over his shoulder in the general direction of Aziraphale’s face. Otherwise, he nibbles on the grapes he’s got in the bowl, let’s his angel massage his head and feed him slices of cheese.

At one point - Crowley might have fallen asleep for a bit - the game show ends and a cooking show begins. Aziraphale feeds the cheese at a slower pace now whilst Crowley hands him the last grapes. 

When all the food is gone, they lean back, comfortable, resting against one another.

“Do you like how it is?”

“Huh?” Aziraphale yawns, before he looks at Crowley. “What do you mean? Of course I do.”

“No, I- egh, I don’t know how to- ah,” Crowley mumbles. He rubs his eyes and sits a bit straighter. Why does he do this now? What’s the point?

“The thing is...we won’t get any farther then this. You know? I mean...ugh.” Just get it over with. Do it. Now!

“Angel. Uh. I love you- you know that. I love all about you, from your love of food, to your weird behaviour towards customers, I love your awful tartan and bowties and your hands and hair and eyes. Oh, your eyes. Uh, right. I just don’t want you to misunderstand me?”

At that point Aziraphale had moved to face his clearly distressed boyfriend. He nods, smiles, nods some more. Yes, of course he knows all of this.

“I am- I. I am not interested in any sexual activities beyond kisses and, you know, romantic touches.” What the hell. Words. Words have never been Crowley’s friends.

He can’t look at Aziraphale. He can’t. Yes, he’s been in relationships before, but they’ve all ended rather quickly. He shouldn’t have said anything. Oh, stupid.

“Crowley, dear. Will you look at me, please?” He sounds so soft. So, so soft.

“Cr- Anthony. My love, it’s perfectly fine. I love you. You said so yourself, silly. Now, look at me so I can kiss you, will you?” 

What?

“What?”

He isn’t mad?

“You aren’t mad?”

“No! Oh, dear. Why would I be mad? You know, I actually thought you might just go slow with me, because I am obviously one for a very slow pace in general. But...I’m very glad you told me the truth.”

Crowley takes his sunglasses off and lifts his gaze. He tries to keep his hopes low, still, because- because of what? He doesn’t know.

“Yeah, I guess. That’s the truth. And I get that you’re disappointed and don’t wa-”

“Stop,” Aziraphale says, his voice is still soft, but it has Crowley shut his mouth and finally look at him. His angel looks like he has all the time. Sweet, gentle, and so calming for Crowley’s ever-racing nerves. He takes his time to see every line on the warmly illuminated face, the wrinkles around his eyes.

“I love you,” he breathes.

“And I love you. I don’t need to do...the dipsy doodle or whatever you want to call it, I am happy with our cuddles, snuggles, kisses and love as it is.”

“Dipsy doodle.”

“Or whatever you want to call it,” Aziraphale chimes. Unashamed. Crowley stares, then he feels the grin on his face.

“I want to call it dipsy doodle and never speak about it again.”

“Very well, now come here.” Crowley leans over and his angel finally gets the kiss he’s been asking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THOUGHTS??? THOOOUUUGHTS??


	22. Newt's question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day at the flower shop. Newt wants to ask Crowley something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> Thanks for joining me this fine evening, I hope you had a nice day :D
> 
> As per usual - not beta'd, I'm not a native speaker.  
> Hope you enjoy it!!

Thursday morning feels like a dream. Crowley wakes up feeling all warm and fuzzy, and not just because he’s wrapped in a heavy blanket and his head is pressed against Aziraphale’s shoulder. It would have been entirely romantic if it wasn’t for Aziraphale’s (albeit light) snoring and traffic noises just outside the window. At a particularly aggressive honking, Crowley turns and buries his face against Aziraphale’s neck.

“You alright?” Aziraphale’s voice is sleep-laced. He wraps one arm around Crowley and yawns.

“Yesss, just, noises and light and... _ living _ things.”

“There, there,” Aziraphale reassures him. He caresses Crowley’s shoulder and yawns a second time before sitting up, gently pulling Crowley up with him.

“Did you sleep alright then, dear?”

“‘Course I did, angel,” says Crowley. He stretches his arms, his back and his legs only to fall back against Aziraphale.

“Ireallyannawotoweshoputitired.”

“I couldn’t understand a word you just said,” Aziraphale remarks and presses a kiss on top of Crowley’s head.

“I need to get up and go to the flower shop. But. I am tired.” Crowley flops into his angel’s lap, limbs all over the place and no motivation to get up to be seen. Aziraphale sympathetically pats his back, glad that Crowley can’t see his fond eye roll.

“If we get up now, we can have breakfast together and then go to our respective jobs,” Aziraphale suggests. As if by command, his stomach starts to rumble.

Still, they take a while to get ready. They share some lazy kisses and caresses, Aziraphale wants to lend Crowley a button-down, Crowley spends twenty minutes in his flat to ‘wear something decent’. In the end, they only spend five minutes on a quick breakfast at Aziraphale’s before they head out. 

“See you at lunch, angel,” Crowley bids his good-bye. He does not blush, he does not, when Aziraphale blows him a kiss before he turns around to go to the bookshop. It’s a good thing that his glasses hide his sheepish expression.

At the flower shop it’s not Anathema, but Newt who greets him. Crowley waves him off and walks straight into the back to take care of the plants. The newly potted flowers seem to be fine except for one of the taller, big-leafed, green one’s. 

Crowley examines the plant and tries to find a better spot for it so it won’t become even worse. He might change the soil, now that he thinks about it. Or water it less? He’d have to look up how to improve this one’s health.

“Mr Crowley, may I ask you-”

“No.”

Newt stands in the door, mouth still opened, mid-question. He shuffles from one foot to the other, uncertain on how to proceed. He takes a tentative step forward and tries again, eyes on a white hydrangea. 

“Anathema will come in a bit later today and we wondered- I mean. She said she met your- in the bookshop. What I mean is-”

Does he sound equally stupid when he’s struggling to find words around Aziraphale? Crowley shakes his head. Hopefully not, as he’s better than Newt. He knows his way with people. Clearly.

“What do you want? I don’t bite...I promise,” he says and makes the effort to turn his back to the ailing plant and face Newt with what he thinks resembles a neutral expression.

“Well, thank you. I guess- Okay, so Anathema and I would like to invite you and your partner to have dinner with us? Anathema likes to cook - I’m s-sure you know this, however we could all together go somewhere too and just have a nice time at a res...tau...rant?”

“You’re asking Aziraphale and me out on a double date night or something?” Crowley raises an eyebrow. He’s very proud of this particular skill and it doesn’t fail him as Newt squirms, but bravely nods. Huh. Anathema has met Aziraphale shortly at his bookshop. He hasn’t been very friendly then, has he? He, not Aziraphale. Aziraphale can actually be friendly around some of the customers.

“Alright, why not? There’s a latin american place we haven’t tried yet, might as well go there together,” he replies and turns back to the plant. The windows reflect Newt’s excited expression and Crowley smirks.

“Great! Perfect! I’ll book a table!” Newt goes back into the small office, grinning.

“What have I gotten us into, angel?” Crowley murmurs and sends a quick text to his boyfriend. Aziraphale’s reply contains a happy exclamation and an unsettlingly cheerful emoji. Does Newt even know which restaurant he was talking about? Probably not, ngh.

Anathema joins him later, when he’s already taken care of most of the plants. He’s working on the fourth out of six bouquet orders. 

“Good day! Wow, these look great,” Anathema tells him.

“Thank you, but don’t praise them too much, don’t want to spoil them.”

Anathema giggles as if he’d made a joke. They work in silence for a while, but Crowley can feel her curious gaze every now and then. Just for his personal glee he does not address her behaviour. They finish the last bouquets, clean the shop and choose which new flowers to order the next time. Fifteen minutes before Crowley’s shift ends, he caves in.

“Go ahead, ask me whether Newt asked me about the date-idea you had,” he grins. Anathema huffs out an annoyed breath, pretending to not have been curious at all.

“So, what did you say?” She smoothes some loose hair strands back and avoids his gaze, a smile playing on her lips. Crowley lowers his glasses to shoot her the best what-do-you-think-impression he’s capable of.

“I’ll have to give him a pep-talk before we come to the date, don’t I?” She sighs and rolls her eyes. Crowley offers a shrug followed by a noncommittal noise. A splash of water hits him in the chest and soaks through his already sheer shirt. He gapes at Anathema, who cocks an eyebrow the same time she tilts the sprayer and let’s another dash hit his shoulder.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“You’re gonna be nice to him, you demon,” she replies and spritzes his other shoulder. Crowley jumps back and holds his hands out to protect himself from the cold water.

“Fuck, yeah,  _ yeah _ ! Stop it, oh my- shit.” He examines his upper body - his shirt and waistcoat cling to him like a second skin. Goosebumps garnish his arms and drops of water fall out of his hair, adding to the dampness of his skin. 

“Promise?” Anathema sounds like a seven-year-old, but Crowley nods anyways. This woman is insane, he knew it from the beginning. It happens to be one of the main reasons why he likes this particular flower shop and wanted to work here. With her. 

“Yes, promise, fine. Are you done now? I have to go and meet Aziraphale for lunch.” He makes a point about wringing out his clothes and tying his wet hair back.

“Ohh, poor you. Say hello and prepare to behave properly when we meet. Friday night is alright with you?”

“I guess so,” Crowley mutters. He rubs drops off his glasses, when he leaves he prays for a strong immune system. A cold is something he is not willing to deal with. Besides, sneezes and coughs are unsexy and prevent cuddling, so colds need to be avoided. Grow. Healthier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullooo....any thoughts you might like to share??  
> Comments are Very, Very, and I can't stress this enough, VERY appreciated!


	23. Spicy food, sneezes and scarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double date!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, welcome back, lads!  
> We're already at chapter 23, wow. Okay, you know how it goes - not beta'd, not edited.  
> Hope you like it!

They leave at six. Crowley drives and Aziraphale does a decent job at trying-not-to-die. The suggested place is a twenty minute drive away, but with the traffic it should take them at least half an hour. Crowley, however, is determined to beat time.

Aziraphale sighs once he’s adjusted his bowtie for the third time after being pressed against the window. “Really, dear, we’ve left in time and you do not need to speed.”

“What are you talking about? This is me driving as I always do.” Crowley grins at him. Aziraphale huffs, mutters ‘I know’ and crosses his arms. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Crowley or that he feels particularly unsafe. It’s just that other drivers might not be as reckless or confident in their driving and might collide with them eventually. But, not today.

“See, we made it just fine and even over-punctual,” Crowley says and opens the door. Aziraphale gets out, a bit shaky on his legs.

“We would have been on time and could have avoided me getting squished, you mean?”

“Yep. Come here, squishy.” Crowley pinches his angels cheeks and kisses him.

“You are unbelievable.”

“You love me.”

“I guess I do. That doesn’t mean I tolerate every behaviour,” Aziraphale grumbles, but when he sees Crowley’s pout, he melts. “Outrageous, dear.”

“Hello, you two!” They turn and see to young people approaching them. Well, not young. Just younger. Ugh. Crowley does not want to feel old, how is he supposed to tease Aziraphale for his old-man behaviours if he himself starts to feel old?

“Anathema! Lovely, hello. Ah...and Newt.” Crowley makes a point of looking them up and down. He should introduce Aziraphale properly, right? He grimaces at Newt, who’s nervous chuckle is enough for Crowley to roll his eyes for the first time this evening. 

“Nice to meet you two,” Aziraphale greets, a friendly smile on his face, curiosity underlies his words. “I love your hat.” Huh? Whose hat? Crowley tears his eyes away from his beautiful boyfriend to find out who he is talking to. Anathema curtsies and touches her green floppy hat. It looks like wool, which seems appropriate at this rather cold evening. 

“Thank you! It’s a beret, a french hat,” she replies. Newt nods along - probably his idea of joining the conversation, Crowley thinks. 

“Well then, don’t we want to go inside?” Crowley opens the door and they enter the warm, colourful restaurant. Inside, with bright lights, Crowley can see that Anathema’s hat matches Newt’s scarf.  _ How ssssssweet _ . He rolls his eyes for the second time this evening.

Newt, ever confident and organised (not), talks to the staff about their reservation and soon enough they find themselves seated near a window. Hats, scarves and jackets are abandoned along with awkward small talk. Even without a proper introduction from anyone the conversation simply flows as soon as they’ve sat down.

...

“...so I caught him yelling at a plant. He looked so offended when I told him I prefer to treat my flowers and plants with kindness,” Anathema laughs.

“I did no-” Crowley sneezes. 

“Bless you,” says Aziraphale and raises his eyebrows. “Don’t get sick, darling.”

Crowley shoots Anathema a pointed look. This is all her fault, the stupid plant mister and he had to walk back wet and without a coat. The audacity of this woman. Ngk.

“I am not sick. I refuse being taken down by diseases, they can bugger off to...somewhere!” So smooth. So very eloquent. Crowley hasn’t got a chance to think of more belittlements, because he has to sneeze again. After a close examination he is relieved to find his meal unfazed by the mucous incident. He chews another bite, ignoring the sceptical glances from Anathema and Aziraphale and a slightly fearful Newt.

“Anyway...have I told you how I tried to order  crêpes and my french must have been terrible? It still is. She had to ask me at least four times, because I wasn’t able to tell her that I wanted all the fruit and all the sweet sauces with them,” Aziraphale speaks up, happy to lead the conversation back to nicer topics.

“Possibly because she couldn’t believe you and not because of your bad french,” Crowley grins around his mojo chicken. To Aziraphale’s delight Anathema then tells her own stories of visiting different places and trying to order food. Crowley fondly rolls his eyes at them.

It is an entire hour later when they finally order afters. Crowley stays with a safe choice, leche asada, and is pleased to be served a delicious yellow piece of baked custard with caramel sauce. Anathema and Aziraphale go out of their way to try unusual and foreign to the british cuisine, things like brazilian fudge balls. However, Crowley finds himself in the unfortunate position of puppy-eyes-angel asking to split some cafetas as their final dish.

“I am so full, angel. I can’t eat anything else, get them for yourself.”

“No, I don’t think I can manage a third pudding on my own,” Aziraphale whines while still eyeing the menu. Newt raises a hand. “I’d share them with-”

“Oh, fine! Order them then, you crepe maniac,” Crowley jumps in, talking over Newt. Aziraphale lights up and kisses Crowley’s cheek. Ah hell, that’s worth the crepe he’ll have to somehow fit into his already full stomach.

The four of them finish their dishes fifteen minutes later. Anathema orders her final glass of wine. At some point during the evening Newt managed to spill his onto the table cloth and his sleeve (this might have been the sixth time Crowley had to roll his eyes this evening). 

When they leave, Crowley helps Aziraphale into his jacket. Anathema puts her lovely hat on and Newt looks down to his scarf. Crowley sneezes. Newt eyes the scarf, then Crowley in his thin black leather jacket. Luckily for Newt, Crowley does not notice him and thus can’t resist the soft green material being wrapped around him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Crowley’s voice is muffled and he pulls the scarf down from his mouth. It’s still tightly wrapped around his neck and effectively traps the long locks of hair.

“I don’t want you to get a cold. Or rather not make it any worse than it is already, it’s really cold outside and you’ve got symptoms already.” Newt doesn’t stutter and he looks Crowley in the eyes - well, he looks at black glasses, but that’s more than he’d ever done. He zips up his own jacket and opens the door for all of them to walk through.

“I- pfff. I don’t need your-” He sees Aziraphale’s look. Sigh. “Fine, thank you.”

They make their way to the cars, the shiny Bentley and another extraordinary car, although for a very different reason than what makes the Bentley an extraordinary car.

“What is this?” Aziraphale’s voice marvells, but his eyebrows express the concerns he has. Crowley gets why; this car does not look like it belongs on a road. Not to mention transport people. Newt smiles, practically skips over to the three-wheeled, small vehicle and pats it.

“This is Dick Turpin! I can’t believe I haven’t told you about him.” 

“Dick, yeah, right, beautiful. Please get in the proper car, angel,” Crowley grimaces. How does Newt get to the shop? Anathema always arrives on her bicycle, he never considered how Newton got there. He couldn’t have missed the hideous car, could he? Disgusting.

“I want to properly say goodbye. Have a bit of patience, dear.” Aziraphale takes his time to walk over to Anathema to take both her hands in his. Crowley rolls his eyes and nobody can appreciate it as it’s dark and he’s wearing his glasses. What a shame.

“Thank you for the invitation, the evening was wonderful. Please, get home safely and I would love to repeat this one time. Newt?” He turns to shake the hand Newt offers.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, don’t be too afraid of Crowley. He’s all bark and no bite,” he whispers the last bit. Crowley, who of course still heard it, growls in response. Newt grins at Aziraphale and nods. “I’ll keep that in mind. Have a nice evening, I’m glad we finally got to meet you.” Anathema and he get into the blue excuse of a car. 

Aziraphale steps over to Crowley at the Bentley and they both wave when Dick Turpin drives past. On their way home, Crowley hums a Queen song and Aziraphale does not get squished against the window. The green, woolen scarf finds its place on Crowley’s kitchen table on top of ‘Mother Shipton’s Prophecies’ from one of Aziraphale’s many bookshelves. Both things for him to take to the flower shop the next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? :D


End file.
